Death Grip
by M C Pehrson
Summary: Story # 7 Spock contracts a deadly disease that makes it necessary for him to leave the Enterprise. Accompanying him to a safepost, Doctor Lauren Fielding must overcome his resistance to her and to the medical care she has been ordered to provide.
1. A Hint of Madness

_Come on,_ simmered Kirk, _come on._ Sure, the transporter chief knew her job, but it was all he could do to keep his mouth shut while Janice Rand fiddled with the Enterprise transporter controls. Resisting the temptation to hurry her along, Kirk chewed his lower lip and waited…and waited.

At last Rand's green eyes rose from her work, glimmering roguishly. "Ready, sir?"

"Any time this year, Rand." That left some fourteen hours before the calendar advanced at midnight. Rand smiled at the New Year's joke and pulled the row of levers on her console. A ringing sound began. As Kirk watched the transporter stage, a single pillar of light appeared, rapidly took on humanoid form, and coalesced into a uniformed Vulcan.

Spock's dark eyes found him waiting. "Admiral."

"Welcome back," returned Kirk, looking him over. "Why Captain, Pashir seems to have agreed with you. I do believe you're tanned."

Spock raised a disdainful eyebrow and stepped from the platform. "Vulcans do not 'tan'"

"I see." Kirk studied Spock's skin tone at close range. _So maybe he hadn't tanned, but he had certainly greened up._ It was not worth arguing over. All that really mattered was the peace Kirk sensed in him. Gone was the haunted look of a man torn between Starfleet duty and family responsibilities. Apparently six days on Vulcan had been enough for Spock to settle his rambunctious daughter into her new home. Spock's human mother would be good for the girl, but Sarek was another matter. No, this past week could not have been easy on Spock. Kirk almost felt guilty about how much he had enjoyed commanding the Enterprise in his friend's absence. But never mind that, he was bursting with questions.

They started into the corridor together. Even before reaching the turbolift, Kirk's curiosity got the better of him. "So…how did things go with your father?"

Spock broke stride, then smoothly continued on. "Well enough," he said quietly. He palmed the lift button, but the car was slow in coming. As the seconds crawled by, he must have felt Kirk's eyes boring into him. Finally he turned toward the admiral. "We are…on speaking terms."

The lift arrived and they stepped into the empty compartment.

As the doors slid shut, Spock stared straight ahead and ordered, "Bridge."

Kirk studied the Vulcan's profile. The fact that Sarek was speaking to his son did not mean the words were pleasant. He decided to change the subject. "New orders came in from Nogura this morning. Since I'm already aboard the Enterprise, he wants me to represent Starfleet at the dedication ceremony for the UFP Space Flight Museum on Memory Alpha."

Spock clasped his hands behind his back and considered the change of plans. "As I recall, the dedication is scheduled for next Monday. Yes, excellent. Touring the complex will be a fine educational experience for the trainees."

"And a bit of fun for you, too?" Kirk could not help but smile as Spock's eyebrow disappeared into his bangs. "But don't start polishing your boots yet. First we have to detour and take on an exhibit from Arcturus—an early full flight vehicle called a Starswift."

The lift doors opened onto the bridge. Kirk was almost to the balcony railing when he realized he was alone. Halting, he glanced over his shoulder and found Spock still standing in the lift. The Vulcan looked as if someone had struck him between the eyes. Then Spock came to himself. Looking perfectly calm, he entered the bridge and took over the center chair from Sulu. But it seemed to Kirk that Spock's skin tone had faded a bit.

ooooo

Compared to Christmas, the New Year's Eve celebration that evening was a subdued affair. There was no official party. Even if Captain Spock had authorized one, the veteran crewmembers would still have preferred their own small, companionable gatherings. At 2300 hours Kirk wandered into Doctor McCoy's cabin and reminisced his way through a glass of Kentucky bourbon. Before long, Chief Engineer Scott and Commander Uhura joined them, followed by Christine Chapel. Last of all came Janice Rand and a willowy blonde lieutenant new to the Enterprise.

Even under the artificial lighting she had the look of outdoors about her, as if she had just come off a hike through the Iowa woods. Interested, Kirk took another swallow of bourbon and went over. McCoy had slipped an arm around the newcomer, causing the natural blush of her complexion to deepen a shade or two. Kirk got the impression she wanted to pull away but was either too embarrassed or too polite.

"Admiral," drawled McCoy, slurring a little. "I believe you've met our latest addition to the Medical Department. _And_ Engineerin'," he added with a mysterious wink at Mister Scott.

Scott scowled. "Leonard—don't ye dare."

McCoy tightened his grip on his 'latest addition'. "Laurie here _has_ been known to lend a hand below decks. You can't deny that, Scotty. Why just last week you said—"

"Get hold of yerself," Scott cut in.

Not to be sidetracked, McCoy repeated, "You _said_ that she's 'fae handy in a Jeffries tube'."

Coming from Montgomery Scott, that would be quite a compliment. As the chief engineer sputtered, Kirk had to wonder what this was all about.

Christine Chapel spoke up. "Her specialty is medical research, analyzing nasty little alien bugs. She's something of a hermit—the type who likes to read medical journals and play with computers in her spare time. That is, when she's not pulling extra duty." Fielding cast Chapel a dirty look, but it didn't do any good. Chapel continued mercilessly. "She worked straight through the Christmas party. Volunteered, can you believe it? Jan practically had to drag her here tonight."

"And is it any wonder?" Rand was seething. "Just listen to yourselves—sirs!"

Kirk choked down a chuckle with another sip of bourbon, but he was glad the transporter chief had spoken up. Her scolding broke up the tease-fest before it got completely out of hand. Doctor Fielding detached herself from McCoy and settled with a glass of fruit soda into a quiet corner. Scott calmed down as the conversation drifted to other subjects. T'Beth's recent departure weighed on everyone's minds. Though Spock's daughter had been a pest, she was a lovable pest. Much of the crew had grown fond of her during her stay aboard the Enterprise.

"I wonder how she's adjusting to life on Vulcan," said McCoy, gloomily swirling the liquor in his glass. "Spock hasn't had much to say on the subject since he got back. Or on any subject, for that matter."

"So I've noticed," Kirk said under his breath.

"My cabin seems so empty," Uhura said to no one in particular. As T'Beth's 'surrogate mother', she had shared her quarters with the child for over three months. Sighing, she looked at the friends gathered around her. "Think of how Spock must feel. He should be here with us on New Year's Eve. Did anyone remember to invite him?"

"Sulu was supposed to." McCoy frowned at his rapidly disappearing drink. "Wonder where they are?"

Kirk checked his wrist chrono. "It's almost midnight. Maybe we should send out a search—"

The door chime sounded. In burst Commander Sulu, a bundle of nervous energy and dark looks. He poured himself a drink and gulped a healthy swallow.

"Hey," said McCoy, "aren't you forgettin' someone?"

"Hell, no!" Sulu glanced with apology at the ladies present, and his eyes settled hard on Kirk. "Begging your pardon, sir, but his high—that is, the _captain_ declines to attend our 'frivolous gathering' and is about to announce a ship-wide ban on drinking after midnight. Regardless of age, rank, or experience."

Right on cue, the intercom carried Spock's voice to every corner of the ship.

Silence followed, broken only by Scott's Gaelic mutterings. Kirk did not need to understand the language. It was enough to see his own annoyance mirrored in the engineer's eyes. And he thought, _Good work, Spock. Not back a day and morale is already down the chute._

Only thirty-one seconds to midnight. Now or never, and it looked like it was up to him. Forcing an ironic smile, Kirk lifted his glass and said, "To friends—both present and far away."

Rand and Fielding were first to take up the toast. "Friends," they repeated, and were followed grudgingly by Scott, Chapel, and McCoy.

"Happy New Year," Sulu muttered.

The solemn little party broke up a short time later. Kirk fully intended to pay the reclusive captain a New Year visit even if it meant yanking Spock out of bed, or meditation, or whatever else he had escaped into. But there was no response when Kirk leaned on the captain's doorchime, nor even when he chimed a monotonous rhythm that should have jangled even Vulcan nerves. Finally he pressed the entry button, but against Vulcan custom, found it locked. Worried, Kirk slowly walked away.

 _Don't let him get to you,_ he told himself. _Everybody's entitled to a moody spell now and then. Uhura's probably right. Spock misses his daughter._ But try as he might, Kirk could not convince himself. Whatever was wrong with Spock, it wasn't about T'Beth…or his father. Kirk sensed it, though he could not have explained how. The feeling was too elusive, like an itch he couldn't scratch, and as maddening as hell.

Morning brought no improvement in the captain's mood. After three unsuccessful attempts, Kirk gave up trying to get Spock alone for a talk. Short of dragging the Vulcan physically from the bridge (and he had neither the strength nor the guts for that) there was little he could do but stand aside, gritting his teeth right along with the others. Nothing, he discovered, could bring on a headache faster than an exacting Vulcan on New Year's Day. He retreated to his cabin and read a chapter of Jules Verne.

After lunch and aspirin, Kirk ventured back into the war zone and found Sulu in the command chair. Veins bulged on the first officer's neck. As Kirk eased up beside the con, he observed Sulu's white-knuckled hands gripping the chair arm.

Very quietly he said, "Mister Sulu, is anything wrong?"

Sulu gave a short, strangled laugh. "No sir, I'm fine. It's nothing I haven't suffered through before. I should be used to it by now."

"But you're not." Kirk realized that Sulu was not referring to a hangover.

The first officer gave no response. He really didn't need to. Kirk glanced over the officers and trainees manning the bridge stations. Only Uhura seemed halfway relaxed, or maybe it was just an excellent job of acting for her trainee's benefit. The young lady beside her at Communications seemed on the verge of tears.

Kirk bent over and whispered into Sulu's ear. "What's going on?"

Sulu struggled with his loyalties for a moment, then turned and whispered, "A message came through from some fellow on Minora, an Arcturan moon. The captain wanted it locked and channeled to his cabin." His almond eyes met Kirk's, full of pity and repressed anger. "The poor kid must've been pretty nervous. She really messed up and let some of the message broadcast over the bridge—that is, before Spock ran to the com board and took over."

"He… _ran_?"

Sulu nodded. "More like a sprint. The captain damn near bit her head off— _and_ Uhura's." With a hopeless gesture, Sulu turned back to the view screen. "And just when things were getting better around here."

Kirk turned to the com station. Uhura caught his eye over the shoulder of her rattled trainee, and there was no mistaking her feelings, either. She said something to the cadet, who hesitated for a moment before escaping into the head. Uhura left her station and came over to the command chair.

"Well," she murmured, "I suppose I could be flogged for that—or better yet, transferred. But the kid needs a little time to herself."

"Good thinking," Sulu said just as low. "If she gets caught off-station, we can log it as a nature call. Even Spock takes those now and then."

Kirk could hardly believe what he was hearing. Since Spock's return from the Kolinahr discipline, he had occasionally retreated back behind an icy wall of reserve, but even at his coldest he always dealt fairly and patiently with his trainees. In the past year he had earned a reputation as one of the finest instructors in Starfleet. Now if all that was about to change, Kirk wanted to know why. He left the bridge determined to get some answers.

ooooo

Spock was not in his quarters. This time Kirk was certain, because the door opened at his touch and he checked every tidy, superheated corner of the Vulcan retreat. Frustrated, he paused by the captain's desk and his eyes settled on the shapely figure holographically preserved in crystal. He was not used to seeing a woman's image in Spock's room. And with that golden hair and amber eyes, T'Beth's mother had been a hauntingly beautiful woman. He wondered if Spock felt pain at the sight of his dead lover, or closed himself off from it.

And what pain was tearing at Spock now? Kirk had only to shut his eyes—and there is was again, a ghostly draft sweeping the corners of his mind. He found himself twisting the signet ring on his third finger—Spock's Christmas gift to him, booty from a little chess competition in Boston. He gripped the diamond-studded band as if that might somehow bring Spock closer or at least keep him from slipping further away.

Shaking himself free of the eerie mood, Kirk left for the VIP quarters. Sometimes rank could be a trial, but at other times—such as now—it was a distinct advantage. There was no need to hunt Spock down. He could settle into the comfort of his own cabin and have the captain paged. _Priority one "code brass"._

Kirk was just starting on a cup of coffee when the chime sounded at his door. "Come in," he called from his chair.

Spock stiffly entered. "Admiral, you wish to see me?"

"I certainly do.' Kirk gestured at an overstuffed chair opposite him. "Sit down, Spock. Relax."

The captain perched obediently on the edge of the chair, straight-backed and rigid as stone.

" _Relax,_ " Kirk repeated, as if he could order such a thing.

Spock's gaze fell to the carpet, but the taut set of his shoulders showed little sign of relaxing. _How many times,_ wondered Kirk, _have we been down this path before?_ What could he possibly say to break through that blasted Vulcan reserve?

"Spock. I know you have a very strong sense of personal privacy. But if something is troubling you, really troubling you, I'd like to think that you would confide in me. As your superior officer, but most of all as your friend." He almost brought up the conversation at Pashir, but decided against it. Reminding Spock of those wrenching moments of disclosure might cause him to retreat even further.

Kirk continued. "When you were my executive officer, you were the best in the fleet. Now you're getting an equally fine reputation as a captain, as an educator. I'd hate to see anything compromise that."

Spock looked up, eyes penetrating and unreadable. "Sir, is this a reprimand?"

"No, my friend. This is an appeal."

Spock looked at him in silence. "Be assured, Admiral, if there were any difficulty I could not manage…"

"Is it still about Sarek? Sarek and T'Beth?"

Spock jumped slightly as Sulu's voice broke over the intercom. "Bridge to Captain Spock."

The Vulcan tapped his com badge. "Spock here. Have we arrived?"

"We have Arcturus on visual, sir."

"Commence orbital approach. I am on my way, Mister Sulu."

Spock rose and started for the door before realizing he had not been dismissed, and that even common courtesy demanded something more of him. Stopping, he faced Kirk. "The situation on Vulcan has been satisfactorily resolved. If you will excuse me…"

So Kirk had guessed wrong. Never mind, he was not about to give up so easily. "Captain, I'd like to see you back here after the cargo's loaded. I'm meeting McCoy at the dining hall, but I'll be free later. Is 1900 hours convenient?"

"1900 hours." Spock's eyes grew distant and his voice went leaden. "Yes…I shall remember."

ooooo

Kirk had little appetite for dinner at the mess hall. His mental alert siren all but blotted out the aroma of broiled steak and Andorian mushrooms rising from his plate. It did not take McCoy very long to figure out something was wrong.

"Jim, you okay?" probed the doctor.

It was a relief for Kirk to put down his fork and quit pretending everything was fine. But how could he explain what was bothering him—this strange, uneasy feeling tearing at his guts? "Sure, Bones. Just some business on my mind, that's all." He pushed his plate aside. "I need to go check something on my computer."

Back at his quarters, he called up Spock's personnel folder—the highly detailed, classified version—and scanned the record for any mention of Arcturus, Minora, Memory Alpha, or Starswifts. Anything and everything even remotely connected with the current mission. It would have helped to know what he was looking for. There were enough references and cross-references to keep him busy for several minutes, but at last he slapped the desktop in frustration.

 _What was the use?_ The answer wasn't in any file. It was walking around the ship in a stubborn, tight-lipped halfling with delusions of Vulcanhood. Discouraged, Kirk left the computer and retrieved his personal flask from a cabinet. He splashed a finger of brandy into a glass and drank it down, letting the slow fire burn a path straight down to his toes. Setting the empty glass on the game table, he checked the wall chronometer: 1847 hours. He began to pace.

At 1900 hours he stopped and stared at the door, his heart pounding absurdly. He listened for the door chime until the chrono read 1904. Another minute passed, then another. Kirk tore his eyes from the shifting numbers and checked its accuracy with his wrist chrono. _On the dot._ Like a sleepwalker, he poured another brandy, but didn't drink it. He stomach felt knotted and queasy. The beginnings of a cold sweat broke over his face.

 _Spock was never late._ _Never._

When the door chime sounded, Kirk nearly jumped out of his skin. His heart lurched a few wild beats, then settled back down as he turned and glanced at the chronometer—1912 hours. _There now, it's Spock. For once in his life, he's late._

But somehow Kirk knew he was only kidding himself. The chime rang again. Setting down his glass, he said, "Come in."

Commander Sulu walked into the room. His eyes were filled with apprehension. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Now that the waiting was over, Kirk was feeling a little calmer. It was as if he had already rehearsed this scene with Sulu and knew exactly what to say. "Alright, what has Spock done?"

Sulu was too caught up in his own concerns to register any surprise over the question. "It's the Starswift, sir. Captain Spock has taken it—somewhere. We keep hailing him, but there's no response…and our short-range sensors are malfunctioning." Looking a little nauseous himself, he swallowed hard. "Admiral, the Starswift isn't insured for flight. It's one of only five 'Swifts still space-worthy. Its value is immeasurable."

Kirk's first instinct was to run for hangar bay, grab a shuttlecraft, and start searching. Instead he sat down. Dashing around like an idiot cadet wouldn't get back the Starswift— _or_ Spock. If the situation weren't so damn serious, he might have laughed at the image of Spock joyriding in a priceless museum piece. _But this_ _was_ _serious, and there was nothing funny about it._

He had to ask. "Sulu, are you _sure_ it's him?"

Sulu gave a dismal nod. "There were witnesses. No one in the hangar tried to stop him. How could they? He's the _captain."_

ooooo

It was a terribly helpless feeling. While Kirk's nature cried out for immediate, decisive action, there was little he could do but watch and wait and hope that Spock would show up soon—show up with a perfectly logical excuse for a stunt that hinted of madness.

Spock had left Sulu with the con, and the executive officer had matters well in hand. Meanwhile, Kirk assisted Sulu and Scott in their efforts to unravel the short-range sensor tangle. If the mess was Spock's doing, he had done a splendid job. Uhura was called in to help, then everyone else with a respectable computer rating, which included Doctor Fielding. Computer Central was overrun with people when McCoy came by to check on his medical colleague.

The doctor blinked at the torn-down circuit panel and said, "What in hell's going on?"

"Come with me." Kirk took McCoy to the observation deck and found a secluded spot in the lounge. For a moment he stood scanning the black nothingness between Arcturus and her two pitted moons.

"Well?" McCoy demanded.

Kirk drew a deep breath and pressed his hand to the cold sheet of steelglass. "Spock's out there, somewhere…with the Starswift." He told the startled doctor what few facts he knew, which didn't amount to much.

"Just great," growled McCoy. "Now that he has a daughter to look after, he goes and commits a court-martial offense. How perfectly logical."

"Spock always has a reason," Kirk said in the Vulcan's defense, but privately he was not so sure, this time. _Dammit Spock, what are you up to?_ No answer came, not even a gut feeling. Kirk turned from the chill view of Space. "He might be on Minora. Earlier today Spock received some kind of message from there. He got pretty upset when a trainee accidentally linked the message to bridge broadcast instead of his cabin."

"Spock upset? Did any of the message come through? Can't you trace it?"

"Spock made sure to delete the source. I've gone over the bridge recording a dozen times. Only a few words, nothing significant. It sounded like a friendly old man, but Spock reacted as if…well, he came down pretty hard on the cadet."

McCoy shook his head and gazed out at Minora. "Secret messages, swiping the Starswift. Remind me to call Spock in for a psychological evaluation."

"First we have to get him back. Sulu considered sending out shuttlecraft, but it's doubtful Spock would answer a radio summons, even at close range. He's made it pretty clear he wants to be left alone. And there's something else to consider. So far only you, Sulu, and myself know Spock has no legitimate reason for 'borrowing' the Starswift. We're also the only ones who might guess that Spock screwed up the scanners. For now, for Spock's sake, I'd like to keep it that way. Shuttles flying around Minora in search patterns would be a little conspicuous. But it might come to that."

McCoy nodded in grudging agreement. "But Jim, how long can we just stand around and wait?"

ooooo

The sensors were partially functioning. Kirk and McCoy had moved their vigil to the hangar deck when a call came for Kirk over the intercom. A small spacecraft was approaching from the general direction of Minora—a small fuel-burning spacecraft containing a single Vulcanoid life form.

Kirk slumped against the transparent balcony wall and flashed a relieved grin at McCoy. He spoke into the intercom. "Good work up there. Sulu, have you established radio contact?"

A brief pause. "Affirmative, admiral. Would you care to talk with the captain?"

Kirk considered a moment and said, "No, I'll wait till he docks." Anger was already beginning to set in. Thinking of what Spock had just put them through, Kirk drew McCoy out of earshot from the control room crew. "I can't wait to hear his excuse, running off with a damn museum exhibit. Of all the slack-brained, juvenile—"

"Now Jim," soothed McCoy, "Spock always has a reason, remember? If you charge out there like a grumpy bear, you'll say something that you'll regret."

Kirk glared at him before turning back to view the bay. It seemed an eternity before the outer hull opened and the sleek Starswift settled onto its pad with a roar of thrusters. _Thank God._ It seemed to be in one piece—a little dingy and travel-worn, but otherwise intact. The hangar bay pressurized. Above the door, a signal light blinked from red to green, releasing the safety lock.

McCoy caught hold of Kirk's arm. "Jim."

"Stay out of it." Kirk said, pulling away. He opened the door, clattered down the steps, and strode across the hangar deck. How very graceful the 'Swift looked with its slim aerodynamic nose and backswept wings. Residual heat from her engines reached him. The air smelled of hot metal and rocket fuel, and Kirk found himself wondering, _what must it be like to fly her?_ In that moment some rebel part of him could not help but envy Spock.

He reached the craft and ran his fingers over the cool, slightly abraded skin of the fuselage. Had she always been this sand-pocked? For Spock's sake, he sincerely hoped so.

Kirk took a deep breath and tried the hatch. It slid open with well-oiled ease. He raised a foot to the opening and hauled himself up by the handholds, clumsily straining a shoulder in the process. The injury did nothing to improve his mood. Slamming the hatch shut behind him, he rubbed his sore shoulder and turned to the pilot seat.

Spock was unbuckling the last of his flight harness. Standing, he came to attention, nearly cracking his skull on an overhead switch. "Admiral," he acknowledged.

"Captain." Kirk bit off the words. "Explain."

Spock drew himself up a little taller. His dark hair brushed the ceiling panel. "Sir?"

"This flight, Captain!"

Spock replied matter-of-factly, "I took the Starswift on an errand."

Kirk waited for the Vulcan to elaborate—there _had_ to be more. But it soon became apparent that Spock was not going to volunteer any information. Kirk's patience snapped. "An errand? An _errand_? For God's sake, we have shuttlecraft designed for surface to ship transportation! We have transporters! Why in hell would you risk a museum exhibit—a rare, valuable spacecraft uninsured for flight?"

"With all due respect, sir…" Spock calmly drew a folded paper from his inner coat pocket and offered it to Kirk. "This will show that the Starswift was fully insured throughout the flight."

Kirk stared hard at the printout. It was authentic, alright. The Starswift had been covered for any contingency during the brief hours of flight. Spock personally had insured it through Lloyds of London at the cost of many, many paychecks.

Taken aback, Kirk handed over the statement. "Okay, so you insured it. That still didn't give you authorization to take it off the Enterprise and fly to who knows where on some personal whim."

Spock smoothly replied, "As captain, I am authorized to transport the Starswift. Flight is, by definition, a form of transportation."

"Don't play literal with me, Spock. You knew damn well what the orders meant. Your behavior proved it. An innocent man does not ignore radio summons. An innocent man doesn't cover his trail by jamming the ship's sensors."

Spock managed to look genuinely innocent as he raised a quizzical eyebrow. "There is a problem with the sensors?"

"There _was._ You must be losing your touch. The trouble was traced just in time to register your—" Kirk stopped, remembering yet another issue. "You left your command. How can you possibly justify that?"

The captain remained dispassionate. "At the time of my departure I was off duty. I logged my intention to leave the ship, and duly informed Commander Sulu."

"Informed him of what? That you'd be stepping out for a bit of larceny?"

Spock's eyes widened. "Larceny? Admiral, I did not _steal_ the Starswift. That was _never_ my intention."

The argumentative tone served to fuel Kirk's irritation. He knew he had better back off or McCoy would be right—he _would_ say something truly regrettable. There would be plenty of opportunities for further questioning between here and Memory Alpha. No use drawing blood. "Not to worry," he said, forcing his fists to relax. "I'll get to the bottom of this in due time. Meanwhile, I trust you'll see that this craft is cleaned and polished to a high sheen?"

That much Spock agreed upon. "Aye, sir. It shall be ready for exhibit."

ooooo

Steamy water showered down on Kirk, easing him awake, soothing the butterflies that stirred now and then in the pit of his stomach. He had always disliked public speaking, and his promotion to Chief of Starfleet Operations had not magically transformed him into a silver-tongued orator. He still hated to give speeches. Until this morning he had managed to think as little as possible about the upcoming ceremony at Memory Alpha. But today was the day.

He finished rinsing and stepped, dripping wet, from the shower. What a luxury—no more sonic booths, now that the Enterprise made its own water. As he toweled himself off, annoying twinges in his shoulder reminded him of the pilfered Starswift. Kirk had argued with Spock all the way to Memory Alpha, yet today he knew no more about the captain's expensive joyride than before. He knew only that Spock had been spending every night in hangar bay, personally testing and retesting the Starswift's systems, and polishing her exterior with his own two hands.

 _And maybe,_ Kirk conceded, _that's all I really need to know._ Such excessive thoroughness in a human would strongly suggest guilt, and somewhere beneath that Vulcan veneer, Spock was also human. While he would not admit any culpability to Kirk, deep down Spock may have admitted to himself that he was wrong, and now, in his own inscrutable way, he was righting things. Vulcan self-punishment to ease a human conscience.

The thought of punishment returned Kirk's thoughts to the dedication speech on his desk. Sighing, he reached for his clothes.

ooooo

Even viewed from Space, Memory Alpha looked impressive to Kirk, for a planetoid. It was the thought of all that knowledge amassed there. Its vast computer system housed the combined learning and wisdom of every living race in the Federation, plus a few that were extinct. All sorts of museums were springing up from the main library complex. Culture, natural history, medicine. And as of today, one to honor the common yearning to fly.

Standing near the command chair, Kirk watched Memory Alpha loom nearer on the forward view screen. As expected, Space traffic was heavy, but under Sulu's expert guidance the cadet helmsman did a fine job securing the ship's orbit. Kirk glanced at the captain, expecting the usual "well done" for his trainee, but the Vulcan was strangely silent.

Kirk did a quick doubletake. Spock looked downright distressed, his eyes glassy and unfocussed. Reaching out, Kirk touched him on the shoulder. _No response._ He shook him a little. Spock's head was slowly turning toward him when he convulsed and pitched forward on the deck.


	2. To Die Alone

Seated in Doctor McCoy's office, Kirk leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and covered his face with his hands. While McCoy waited, Kirk balled his hands into fists and pressed hard against his eyes, struggling to hold back the tears. _It couldn't be…it just couldn't be! If only he had known Spock was sick…_

He drew a long, shaky breath and after a moment felt steady enough to look up. McCoy sat deathly still at his desk, his graying head cradled in one hand. The doctor's friendship with Spock had really deepened this past year. Kirk had never seen him more shaken over a terminal diagnosis.

McCoy sighed. "My God… _Vulcan plakir-fee!_ It just isn't fair…isn't fair for _either_ of them."

 _Either of them?_ With a pang Kirk remembered Spock's eleven-year-old daughter. T'Beth had already lost a mother, and the grandmother who raised her. At this point in her young life Spock was everything to her. McCoy was right. It _wasn't_ fair—not one damn bit.

He tried, and failed, to ease the ache from his throat. "You haven't told him yet…"

McCoy leaned back and bleakly shook his head. "Spock isn't in any condition to understand. Now yet. Once this crisis passes…with the help of medication, he'll be better."

"How much better?"

McCoy rose and ordered two coffees from the wall dispenser. He handed a steaming mug to Kirk and settled back behind the desk with his. Staring into the column of steam, he said, "Spock will never again be vital enough, physically or mentally, for work. He'll be lucky just to walk around, talk a little, and handle his personal needs...for a while."

Kirk's hands felt like ice. He wrapped them around the mug. "And then?" he managed to ask.

"And then medication will not be enough." McCoy rubbed wearily at his red-rimmed eyes and his voice grew hoarse. "Little by little his body will fail. In total, three months or so is the average for a full-blooded Vulcan. With Spock's genetic makeup, I wouldn't expect much beyond that."

ooooo

Kirk jolted from a dream in which Spock was dying. But though he was awake now, the nightmare refused to go away… _because it was true…_

He glanced at the glowing chrono near his bunk. After eleven, and deck by deck his thoughts drifted, inevitably, to sickbay. His worry over the speech had passed. Somehow he had made it through the dedication, and the Starswift was gleaming on its pad in the museum. How foolish all the fuss now seemed, how petty to have badgered Spock about an incident that ended harmlessly. Had Spock sensed death approaching when he took the 'Swift? Was it death that Kirk had felt clutching at his own heart?

This morning Spock was given the news. According to McCoy, he "looked startled" but "took it well enough" after reviewing the diagnostic evidence. Later, when Kirk visited Spock's bedside, the Vulcan kept steering the conversation away from personal matters.

Kirk turned and stared at the wall. No more than a week left with Spock, just enough to get him back on his feet for the final beam-down to the nearest safepost. Regulations demanded it. There were 126 crewmembers—including Doctor McCoy—with the potential to become carriers once the disease progressed to the infectious stage. Even so, Kirk might have said "to hell with regulations _"_ , but simple humanity demanded more for Spock than months of imprisonment in an isolation chamber. There were better ways to finish out one's life. _But to die alone, in a strange land…_

A part of Kirk wanted to beam down with him, but did he really have the guts to watch helplessly while Spock died by inches? As it turned out, Starfleet had relieved him of the decision. With the captain disabled, Admiral Nogura did not think the Enterprise could spare another seasoned officer…and Kirk knew the old man was right. This was a training cruise, a ship full of kids. What if they ran into real trouble? Today even Spock had said, "Watch over them, Jim." So for now he was back in command, complete with teaching duties.

A chime at the door dragged Kirk from his dark reverie. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he rose and put on his robe and slippers. Who could be braving the admiral's wrath at this time of night? _Probably Bones. Hope Spock is okay…_

Coming out of the bed alcove, he smoothed his hair with his hands and said, "Enter."

A woman walked in—young, blonde, and terribly attractive. Ordinarily Kirk would have warmed at the sight of Lauren Fielding, but tonight he was too numb to appreciate even her good looks, or be embarrassed by his own appearance.

Clearly _she_ felt uncomfortable. "I woke you," she said with a blush. "Sorry, Admiral."

"I wasn't asleep. Can I help you?"

She pushed nervously at the thick coil of hair hanging over her left shoulder. Hesitant but determined, she said, "I need to talk to you about Captain Spock."

A sudden flicker of hope sprang up in Kirk. Doctor Fielding specialized in the many contagious diseases found in Space. She was some kind of hotshot, so maybe she knew something McCoy didn't. Maybe there _was_ still a chance.

"Have a seat," he urged. He offered her a drink, but all she would accept was ice water. He ordered two and sat in a chair beside her.

Taking a sip, Fielding said, "I understand that Captain Spock will be leaving the ship soon."

 _So there was no miracle, after all._ Kirk set down his glass in aching disappointment. He needed something a helluva lot stronger, something to ease the pain and make him want to go on living while his friend died.

"Yes," he forced out. "The captain will be discharged to a safepost—some settlement of beings immune to plakir-fee and willing to accept him." _Hell, that made Spock sound like a charity case…or one of those ancient lepers._

Fielding stared at her water. Nibbling her lip, she set the glass down and turned her blue eyes on the admiral. "Doctor McCoy plans to discharged him with a medical attendant."

"I know," Kirk said. "It will probably be Doctor Chapel. She's volunteered."

"Yes. But I have a better idea." Fielding's slender fingers tightened over the knees of her uniform as she leaned toward him. "Admiral, you're aware of my training in alien diseases. No one aboard ship knows as much about plakir-fee, with the possible exception of Doctor McCoy, who runs the risk of becoming a carrier. That in itself makes me a candidate, and I also have a solid background in research. I've worked with Doctor M'Benga at Starfleet Medical Center. So not only could I care for the captain, I could also continue working for a cure." She paused for a breath. "What's more, my brother runs a Catholic mission on Gamma Vertas IV. He tests immune, just like me, and he's offered to provide housing."

The lady had certainly done her homework. Kirk remembered Gamma Vertas IV from the list of safeposts in the sector. The native race of mutes could not contract Spock's disease, but neither could they communicate with him unless he learned Gamman signing or their intricate musical language. Such a challenge might be good for Spock, but if he failed he would be stuck with no one to talk to but Doctor Fielding and her missionary brother. "This is all very interesting, Doctor. But shouldn't you be telling this to Doctor McCoy? As chief medical authority aboard ship, the final decision will be his."

"I have told him," Fielding said, "and I get the impression that he likes the idea, but…he doesn't want to disappoint Chapel. They've been working together a long time and…"

"Yes, they have." He had no intention of discussing Doctor Chapel's feelings for Spock. Obviously Fielding wanted him to influence McCoy. Kirk was not at all sure that he liked her approach, and the strange intensity in her eyes was unsettling. "You're new to the ship. You can't know the captain very well, so I assume your interest in him is strictly professional. You…want to study his case."

The eyes kindled with blue flame. "I want to _care_ for him, Admiral, as one human being cares for another. I want to give him every chance for survival that ongoing research can provide."

"Of course," Kirk said quickly, but a lingering suspicion remained. Chapel wasn't the only one carrying a torch for Spock; Vulcans had a way of attracting female interest. If this was some sort of jealous infighting between Fielding and Chapel, he wanted no part of it. But if her research _could_ offer Spock even the smallest chance…

He decided to make some quiet inquiries about Doctor Fielding before saying anything to McCoy.

ooooo

Kirk need not have worried about Lauren Fielding. It was Spock who turned out to be the real difficulty. Just as McCoy had predicted, he was growing stronger every day, and so argumentative that McCoy delegated the choice of safepost and companion to Kirk.

The admiral liked what he had heard about Gamma Vertas, but Spock refused to see the logic of any such arrangements. Sitting up in bed, he radiated a Vulcan chill that both aggravated and tore at Kirk. " _My_ choice of safepost will preclude the need for a medical companion," he hoarsely reiterated. "The facility I select will provide sufficient care."

"But Spock, I've checked on Gamma Vertas, and the welcome mat is out. It has a nice warm climate, plenty of sun."

"No." Spock stubbornly crossed his arms.

"What is this?" Kirk said half-seriously. "A prejudice against women doctors or against mutes? Or is it Catholics? Don't worry, Doctor Fielding promises the missionaries won't try to convert you. Their main operation is educating and caring for children left homeless by the last Donari incursion. You were on Vulcan then," he added in explanation, "undergoing Kolinahr." Spock sat unmoving, the angular planes of his face pale and rigid. But Kirk refused to be shut out. He settled, uninvited, on the bed. "You're making this awfully hard, do you know that? Listen to me. The arrangements for Gamma Vertas have already been made. And if you won't agree to either Chapel or Fielding, I'll have to make that decision, too."

Spock stared straight ahead.

"Alright, then. Because she's an expert as well as a researcher, it's Doctor Fielding. This isn't easy for me to say, Spock, but even if she can't save you, any data she gathers will bring medical science that much closer to a cure. Knowing that could give some meaning to…to…"

"My death, Admiral. You may say it." Spock looked at him, eyes black and cold as deep Space. "I don't need Doctor Fielding to give my death meaning."

"Of course not." Kirk's voice broke. "I wasn't implying—" He stopped, struggling to control the emotions that would only embarrass Spock. "Your dying sure as hell means something to me—and to a good many others around here. _And_ on Vulcan." He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, wondering if Spock's inflexibility didn't reflect a buried resentment of Starfleet policy. Who wouldn't resent being told to go die somewhere else; we don't want you anymore…"Spock, if you'd rather stay on board. I can try to—"

"No."

"Then maybe I can work out a way to go with you."

"I don't want you there." The words were icy, abrupt, brutal.

"For God's sake, then, your mother if she tests clear—and T'Beth. Why won't you let us notify them?"

Spock pierced him with an icy look. "You may notify my family _after_ I am declared dead. Surely I have made that clear to both you and Doctor McCoy."

Kirk abruptly rose. "Hell, _nothing's_ clear to me anymore!"

The sound of his outburst faded into an uneasy stillness. Gazing at the stone-faced Vulcan he wondered, _is this how we'll spend our last days together?_ Shaken but determined, he said, "I'll respect your wishes in regard to your family. As for everything else, it's settled." Kirk was about to leave when he suggested, "You might check out the library reader for some information on Gamman signing."

ooooo

The instant the door opened, a boson's pipe sounded. Kirk followed Sulu, Spock, and McCoy out of the captain's quarters where Spock had spent his final three days aboard ship. Kirk stopped beside the others, momentarily taken aback by the stiff rows of uniformed cadets lining the corridor.

"Well, I'll be…" McCoy murmured thickly.

Commander Sulu's voice cracked like a whip. "I _ordered_ these corridors cleared!"

The trainees remained as motionless as statues, eyes stubbornly forward. Kirk's heart warmed with pride for the youngsters. Their captain was on his feet and they would give him the last send-off he deserved.

"Come on," Kirk said. In his weakened state, Spock could only stand for so long, and Kirk—for one—was more than ready to get this parting over with.

The four of them moved forward, reached the turbolift, and rode in aching silence. What was there left to say? They had already spoken their final words, however awkward. Exiting outside the transporter room, the honor guard continued—long ranks of crewmembers on either side of the corridor, standing defiantly at attention. Out-and-out insubordination.

Spock briefly hung back, taking a moment to glance over them before entering the transporter room. There, Scott manned the controls with Rand and Uhura on either side of him, eyes damp and sorrowful. On the transporter platform, Doctor Fielding stood centered over a locus, waiting. There was nothing left to beam down. Belongings and equipment had been sent below, along with the skimmer Spock kept stored in the transporter matrix. He had only to mount the platform.

Kirk stood ready to help, but the Vulcan made it under his own power. Fiercely controlled, Spock looked at each of them in turn, before nodding at Scott. No one was willing to say "goodbye", so they said nothing.

Scott worked the controls. Through a haze of tears Kirk watched his friend fade from view…


	3. Fever Dreams

… _He was in serious trouble. Admiral Kirk would be pacing at the hangar door, barely restraining his human impatience as the landing bay pressurized. Within minutes Kirk would burst through the Starswift's hatch, angrily demanding answers. "An_ _errand_ _? For God's sake, we have shuttlecraft! Transporters! Why in hell would you risk a museum piece?"_

 _Spock's fingers felt clumsy as he worked to free himself from the antiquated flight harness. Time was short. Before facing Kirk he must clear from his mind the troubling memories of that other time. He must not think of the disturbing change in Professor Hobbs, or what the old man might yet do. There was a phrase Spock had once heard—"kiss your career goodbye". It seemed to fit his situation perfectly._

 _The hatch came open and there was the sound of someone climbing into the cockpit. Spock fought the tangled straps of his harness, but the more he struggled with them, the tighter their hold grew. They cinched around his chest, his throat, until he was gasping for breath. He began to choke…_

In a jolt of pain the Starswift vanished, and he was coughing uncontrollably. As Spock slowly regained his breath, his mind settled back into reality. Dazzling light streamed out of a pink sky, into a sun-baked courtyard. He was alone at his mission home on Gamma Vertas IV.

Stretching facedown on his lounge, he closed his eyes and savored the hot sunshine on his bare back. Church bells chimed in the distance. Beyond the patio wall, Gamman pipes mingled with strange birdcalls. There was a scuffle of children playing, a ball thumping rhythmically against hard ground. Sounds of life.

Spock was on the verge of sleep when an object whizzed past his left ear and bounced around the stone flagging, into a flowerbed. He found a small silvery-eyed girl staring at him with a leash fastened to her wrist. At the end of the leash a tall, emu-like bird blinked curiously.

Spock almost spoke. Then remembering, he rolled onto his side and signed brokenly. {Hello child you lose something?}

{I am sorry,} she answered him with graceful ease. {Father, I did not mean to disturb your rest.}

{You not disturb,} Spock signed too emphatically and his fingers cramped. The child gazed at him, sad-eyed, as he rubbed the knotted muscles of his hand.

{Much pain,} she signed.

He could not deny it. But neither could he bring himself to acknowledge his weakness to the orphan girl. After a moment she wandered off with her pet and retrieved the ball. As she disappeared through the gateway, he heard another sound nearby, unexpected and startling on the drowsy afternoon. The sound of a human voice.

"All the outworld men Windsong's ever known are priests like my brother Larry. That's why she calls you 'father'." Doctor Lauren Fielding walked from the back porch into view. She was out of uniform. These days, they both were. "Captain, I hope you weren't offended by it."

Spock's sore mouth and throat made speech difficult. Rather than sign, he spoke anyway, hoping to distract Fielding as he attempted to rise. "I see no reason to take offense. Whether applied in its religious or cultural connotation, 'father' is a respectful term."

But there was no easy way to sit up. He had held the position much too long, and despite the sun's therapeutic warmth, he was very stiff. Fielding moved closer, appraising him with a sharp medical eye as he raised himself in slow stages. Sweating now, he clung to the lounge and muscled his body upright. His arms shook as he struggled to hold himself in place. He had no strength left to protest the doctor's interfering presence.

She produced a medical scanner from a feathered native pouch slung over her shoulder. "I came to check your condition, but you were asleep. Rather than wake you, I…went in and made myself useful."

Spock's eyebrow climbed. "You entered my house? Must I lock it?" He could not recall the exact day he had last cleaned the cottage. It was difficult enough just to don clothes each morning. During the bad spells he slept in his clothes to eliminate the struggle of dressing and undressing. Today was so warm that he had not bothered to put on a shirt. He felt uncomfortably exposed in from of the female doctor. He wished she would go back to her brother's house. Maybe the rectory also needed cleaning.

Fielding made no mention of the disarray she found inside, but neither did she show any sign of leaving. Bluntly she said, "I was ordered to do more than just dispense medication. After three months at St. Vincent's, I think it's time we discuss those orders again."

Spock reached down beside the lounge and switched on his radio to the ever-present strains of native music. Primitive technology, but the broadcast programs provided an interesting diversion. He raised the volume in a deliberate attempt to drown out Doctor Fielding, and concentrated on deciphering the tonal keys of the Gamman language. It sounded like a news presentation. As he strained to understand, he could not help wishing he had more time left for study and the mental energy to master the unique language. But there was nothing to be gained by wishing, and in view of his deteriorating state of health, any desire to prolong life seemed foolish indeed.

"Captain." Doctor Fielding looked down at him, persistent as ever, inhumanly patient. "You _have_ been taking your medicine?" Although he could hear her all too well, she raised her voice several decibels above the radio. "It would make both our lives so much easier if you'd just cooperate! Remember, I _am_ here under orders from Admiral Kirk!"

"You volunteered," Spock grated painfully.

"That fact does not change my orders."

It was no use talking to the woman. Why couldn't she understand that her services were neither needed nor desired? All Spock wanted was solitude, all he desired was peace. Stretching out on his back, he gazed into the cloudless pink sky and thought back to a time when his orders were not questioned or countermanded, when his body was strong and free of pain. Before every word tore at his throat, every swallow, every breath. Before life itself became a grueling effort.

Over and over again he reminded himself, _pain is a matter of the mind, it can be controlled._ Even knowing what he would find, he continued reaching inward for the strength of Vulcan that was forever lost to him. Mentally crippled by the initial onslaught of plakir-fee, he carried on as best he could. _At this point, he should not even be alive._ He swallowed, wincing from the pain, and closed his eyes. _Human blood, that's why._ Even the effort required to think made him weary…

 _…"Well, Captain, I hope your flight was restful, because I'm not giving you a moment's relief until you cut loose with the whole story!" The admiral paused only for a grim breath. "Do I make myself clear, Captain?"_

 _"Yes, sir." Spock permitted himself the cautious hope that his career in Starfleet might not be ruined, after all. He had seen to it that the Starswift's flight recorder would yield no incriminating evidence. Maintaining his personal silence would be a distasteful task, but certainly feasible. It only remained to put the craft into as good, or better, a condition than before its flight to Minora._

 _The days whirled by, a weird rotation of command duties and night shifts in hangar bay, of gold braid and grimy coveralls. And at every turn, Kirk—questioning, probing, demanding the truth._

 _Foregoing sleep should have posed no hardship for a Vulcan. At first Spock attributed his growing stiffness to strained muscles and psychological stress, the gathering fatigue to poor circadian adjustment. He scarcely heeded the increasingly scratchy throat as he kept working. He was so seldom sick. There was no time even to consider it now._

 _Late one night he was leaning, slightly dizzy, against the Starswift's gleaming fuselage when a clatter of boot steps echoed through the bay._ _Another of Kirk's interruptions,_ _he thought. But turning, he found a young woman approaching. He immediately recognized the medical specialist recently assigned to the Enterprise. She seemed to have a talent for getting in his way, and the sight of her never failed to disturb him. The graceful movement of her slim body, the finely chiseled features, the golden hair—all stirred up a host of troubling, best-forgotten memories of another woman, another time._

 _Spock straightened in a way that sent pain shooting down his extreme lower back._ _How ironically fitting,_ _he thought to himself. Aloud, he said, "Doctor Fielding."_

She stopped, and as she looked at him, her cheeks grew rosy. "Captain, I…I didn't recognize you in those work clothes." After a moment her eyes moved to a point behind him and lingered there. "Mister Scott was right. She really is a beauty."

"She?" A disconcerting wave of warmth traveled over his body. He felt achy and feverish.

"The 'Swift, sir."

Spock experienced a fresh twinge of annoyance. He should have recalled the human penchant for endowing machines with gender and personality. His mind was becoming an unreliable as his body. He needed rest.

"You came to see the Starswift," he deduced. Why else would she have come to hangar bay?

She met his gaze with astonishing blue eyes. "There's been so much talk about her. I decided to take a look when I came off duty, before she ends up behind ropes at the museum." She glanced over his coveralls and found the circuit reader in his less-than-clean hands. A little frown drew her brows together. "You're working on her yourself, Captain? Can you use any help?"

Spock found himself at a momentary loss for words. This was not the first offer of aid he had received, but it was by far the most perplexing. Lauren Fielding was a medical doctor, not an engineering trainee. He could think of few reasons why a new female crewmember—an officer on Doctor McCoy's staff—might want to spend her precious free time testing circuits with her captain. None of the reasons pleased him.

"I have no need for assistance," he firmly said…

"Well, you're getting it!" came a sharp response.

The blaring music shut down. A cool, smooth hand touched his face. "You're burning up. Let's get you into the house."

Somehow he was on his feet, lurching through a landscape of pain. The trip seemed endless…

…The Starswift shuddered and shook as Spock pressed its antiquated engines for still more speed. Behind him, the Enterprise shrank into the distance, but to Spock's eyes the moon of Minora seemed as remote as ever. Minora Astrological Station and the bitter confrontation ahead…

Was this to be Jonas Hobbs' revenge? The man had known Spock would risk a great deal to meet his former teacher's demands. Hobbs had known that even a Vulcan could be blackmailed.

But when Spock arrived at the station, the old, wispy-haired professor did not act like a blackmailer. He seemed friendly, even grateful that his presumptuous demand had been met, and Spock had appeared on schedule with the appropriated Starswift. Hobbs pored over the sleek spacecraft with an engineer's passion, speaking of his grandfather, Philo Hobbs, who designed the ship. But inevitably the conversation turned to Hobbs' teaching days at ShiKahr, Vulcan—and to Spock's mother..

"How is Amanda?" Hobbs asked suddenly.

Spock was prepared for the question. "Content as my father's wife. More," he said, drawing himself up. "She is happy."

Hobbs snorted in derision. "Spoken like the Spock of old. Still evaluating situations you scarcely comprehend. What does a Vulcan know of happiness?"

"You of all people should remember. I am half human."

"Of course. Amanda's pride and joy. She never did see you for what you were—a self-righteous, narrow-minded little prig. And I wager you haven't changed a damn bit in all these years, have you, my boy?"

Though Spock felt his control slipping toward anger, his voice did not betray him. "Is this why you called me here—to insult me?"

They were in the cockpit. With his eyes on the control panel, Hobbs quietly said, "You knew all along that I was here at this station, didn't you?"

"And you knew where to find me" countered Spock, "and deliver your threat."

"To which you responded." Straightening, the old man studied his face and smiled in satisfaction. "You're guilty as hell—I always thought so. That clever young mind and those clever young fingers. Even back then, you were good with computers. I hear you designed a no-win scenario for the simulator at Starfleet Academy. The Kobayashi Maru."

Spock almost said "yes", but stopped himself in time. 'Yes I am guilty' or 'yes I designed it'? The professor was also quite clever.

"You don't have to admit anything to me. You're here, aren't you? You were afraid I would expose you. Why else would you have come?"

"Curiosity," Spock put forth.

Hobbs threw back his head and laughed. "'Curiosity will be the death of you'—it's an old Earth saying. Have you heard of it?" At Spock's silence, he began to posture wildly and broke into a startling, maniacal chant. "Spock, Spock, Amanda's son, stole a 'Swift and away he run…"

Spock took a backward step that bumped him into the pilot's seat. "You've gone mad!"

Hobbs laughed again, but suddenly looked quite sane. "Oh, have I frightened you? Do forgive me. I couldn't resist shaking you up, just a little. You were always so cocksure of yourself. You probably imagine you'll even find some way out of this scrape. Don't you?"

Spock felt behind him for the remote hatch release. "Professor Hobbs, I have done what you asked, and now…"

"Yes, yes, I'll leave. In a minute." Hobbs sighed and shook his white head wearily. "Look at me. I'm an old man. Believe it or not, despite everything, I just wanted to—shall I say—settle things between us before it's too late. Death is the true no-win scenario and we all must face it—eh, Spock?" He offered his hand.

Spock stared at him, uncertain of how to proceed. Having lived among Vulcans, Hobbs would know that social custom discouraged casual touching. Was this gesture intended as another insult…or as an appeal to the human part of Spock? The man seemed sincere. Refusing a handshake would appear very rude…and there was the painful thought of what Hobbs could do to him, if he so chose.

"Come now," Hobbs said.

Spock stepped forward, and mentally bracing himself, grasped the professor's hand. The skin felt cool and repulsively moist. Hobbs latched on with a death grip. Then, with a cryptic smile, the old man sauntered out the hatch singing, "Away he run across the stars, but I don't think he'll get too far…"

They were inside. With little help from the delirious Vulcan, Lauren still managed to settle him in his freshly changed bed. She brought out her medscanner. As usual, the flashing instrument confirmed her observations, but there was no pleasure in being correct. For all Spock's trying insular ways, there was a certain something about the man—something basically fine and decent. And death was creeping up on him.

She prepared a sprayhypo and injected the powerful cocktail of medication into the captain's arm. After a moment his disease-wracked body relaxed into sleep. She waited an extra while for the sedation to reach its full effect, then gently pried open his mouth and peered inside with an illuminated probe. The ulcers had worsened. It was a wonder he could speak at all, or eat. Had he been eating? The weight was melting off him. What a horrible way to die…

Pulling herself together, Lauren made a firm decision. There would be no more arguments. Daily visits were not enough, especially when he would not even let her through the door. However much it upset the captain, she was moving in.

That afternoon she brought her personal belongings from the mission rectory to Spock's cottage. There wasn't much—a couple changes of clothes, a small bag of toiletries, her native sleeping pallet and pillow. The main transfer involved medical and communication equipment: basic doctoring tools, medicines, a portable biocomp, and a small voice transceiver for sending messages to the Enterprise. Now that she was here to stay, she could stop making excuses to Doctor McCoy and Admiral Kirk. She could stop dreading every official communiqué.

But for now there was still plenty of work to be done in the cottage. Fielding hated clutter. She had been dismayed to find the captain's living space in such unVulcanly disorder. The litter and grime told as much about Spock's condition as any medscanner. A search of the kitchen cupboards revealed a few petrified crumbs alongside the liquefier McCoy had sent along. The cooler held a couple of withered vegetables. Either this was shopping day or the captain had given up entirely on food.

The sun was low in the sky when Spock awoke, and she gently confronted him. "Sir, you've stopped eating, haven't you?" His silence was answer enough. Lauren pretended not to see his embarrassment—that he, a Vulcan, could no longer bear the agony of taking in food. "How long has it been since you last ate? Sign, don't speak."

"That is no concern of yours," he rasped acidly. "Get out of my house."

She waved her medscanner the rigid length of his body and concentrated on the readings so he would not see her frustration. "Good. The fever's down quite a bit. You must be feeling better." She took a spray applicator from her pocket and said, "This will improve things even more. Open your mouth, please."

But his jaw set obstinately and Lauren realized the polite approach was not going to work. Sitting on the bed, she faced him with a stubbornness equal to his own. "Captain, you don't seem to understand. The game's over. From now on, I'm going to carry out my orders—all of them. And, heaven help us, but that means living right here with you." If looks could really kill, she would have fallen dead on the spot. She raised the cylinder of medication for him to see. "I should have explained the procedure. This is a topical anesthetic. Spraying it in your mouth should make eating a little more tolerable. You surely must be hungry. Please," she appealed to him. "I can't believe that you enjoy being uncomfortable."

For a long moment Spock lay unmoving, his slanted eyebrows seeming to frown beneath his overgrown bangs. Lauren pictured herself wrestling him if he refused to cooperate, and it was not a pretty picture. She almost sighed in relief when the Vulcan surrendered to her plea and opened his mouth. In an instant she had the ulcerated tissue sprayed.

"I'll need to borrow your skimmer to go buy groceries," she said, expecting a fresh argument in retaliation for her small medical victory. But surprisingly the captain voiced no objection then, or later, when she blended some native fruit and knar-milk with ulcer-soothing medication for him to drink. Spock drained two full cups.

There was little sleep for Lauren that night. Bent over her biocomp, she spent hours reviewing the facts of Spock's case and every bit of available data on the plakir-fee virus. Its literal translation, 'bloody death', was as dismaying as the many devastating outbreaks in Vulcan history, and the failure of their finest healers to devise a cure. In ancient times, victims were cast out into the desert to die alone. Modern victims faired only slightly better. On Vulcan they were strictly isolated. When off-world like Spock, they were exiled to a safepost until death claimed them.

The disease progressed in distinctive stages. First came the initial crisis—general malaise and an inflammation of the brain resulting in seizures and neurological damage. The second stage brought some improvement, a sort of false remission. In the final highly contagious stage, the virus rapidly destroyed the body. Death usually resulted from hemorrhaging.

Spock had already outlasted any full-blooded Vulcan, and there was some cause for hope in that. If even minimal doctoring had helped delay his death, how much more might be accomplished through strict medical supervision?

The next morning, Lauren awoke to find the captain seated nearby, staring at her. With a twinge of embarrassment, she realized that she had fallen asleep at the biocomp, right in the middle of the sitting room. Flexing the kinks out of her shoulders, she smiled at him and said, "Good morning, Captain."

She did not expect a Vulcan to smile back, but a simple greeting would have been nice. At least Spock was up and around, and it looked like a beautiful day. Sunlight streamed through the un-curtained windows, spreading its warmth over the captain.

So that's what he's up to, Lauren realized. Sunning himself. He probably performed this ritual every morning, just to get moving. Rising, she set about dispensing medication and making breakfast. She was not sure which foods Spock could tolerate in his condition, but last night's concoction seemed to have worked well, so for now she blended more fruit and knar-milk. With the help of spray anesthetic and plain old Vulcan fortitude, the creamy mixture went down.

Later, while Spock lay out in the backyard, she made a list of nourishing local foods to try on him. She wished she knew more about Vulcan home cooking. The best person to consult would be Spock's mother—Amanda, the human wife of Ambassador Sarek, according to the medical records. Thoughts of Amanda and of Spock's daughter on Vulcan had nagged at Lauren ever since beaming down, and now seemed the perfect time to air her concern over the absence of Spock's family. She started out the back door, but with one foot in the patio she pulled up short, charmed by the scene before her.

Windsong was back. Flowers clutched in one pudgy hand, she stood signing at Spock, who had turned face-up on the lounge. With a shy smile she gave him the slightly bedraggled bouquet.

{Beautiful,} he signed, courteously sniffing the crimson flowers. This brought on a sneeze. Though it must have hurt badly, he added, {I like…yes…nice.}

Windsong burst into a dazzling grin and skipped from the yard. For a long while afterward Spock lay studying the blossoms, looking haggard and almost humanly wistful in the unguarded moment. So beneath that disagreeable exterior there still lurked a little tenderness, after all. Lauren's warmed toward him.

Then Spock saw her and his Vulcan mask locked back into place. Pretending she hadn't noticed, Lauren drew up a chair beside him and casually fingered his wrist. The fluttering pulse was almost undetectable, the skin a bit too warm, even for a Vulcan. Not for one instant did she imagine her feminine presence working this effect on him. From what she knew of Vulcans, they took an interest in women only once every seven years. His daughter T'Beth was probably the offspring of just such a cyclical mating…

The wrist stiffened and pulled away, reminding the doctor of another interesting fact of Vulcan physiology. They were a race of touch telepaths. Had he read her thoughts? Fighting a blush, she brazened it out. "Ten minutes more, Captain, then out of the sun. You don't want another spell like yesterday's."

"Miss Fielding," his rough voice cautioned, "if you think that your authority exceeds mine…"

She squarely met the resistance flaring in his dark eyes. "Captain. My name is Doctor Fielding and I am the medical authority here. I don't understand why you oppose me so, but the fact remains that Doctor McCoy and Admiral Kirk have placed me in charge. And I've heard that you do respect Kirk's authority."

At that the fire slowly went out of him. With painful dignity he rose and limped into the house. After a while Lauren summoned the courage to follow him inside. He was at the kitchen table, toying with Windsong's flowers as if they were pieces of some great cosmic puzzle. He had put on a native striped overshirt. Its fastenings must have given him trouble, since the bright chevron pattern was not properly aligned. That, and the sight of his nose starting to run, made him look so pathetic and uncommanding that she was tempted to apologize. But she resisted the urge. After all, she had only spoken the truth.

"Those flowers are giving you hay fever," she observed. His medical history made note of sensitivity to certain pollens, something unheard-of among full-blooded Vulcans. The flowers were sure to aggravate the upper-respiratory discomfort of plakir-fee. "I'm afraid they'll have to go."

As she reached out, his fingers closed over the wilting bouquet and he skewered her with a cold stare. Don't interfere, his eyes warned.

Lauren let her hand drop. She had to choose her battles wisely. "Alright then, but you'll be sneezing. I can't give you an antihistamine—it would bring on seizures." Filling a glass from the kitchen faucet, she set it before him on the table. "If you want to keep the flowers, you might as well keep them alive."

The tension between them made the day seem very long. In the late afternoon Lauren set aside her research and brought out her flute. She had played the instrument since seventh grade and these past months had been learning the musical rudiments of the Gamman vocabulary. But today she chose a Vulcan composition—a strange, haunting tune she had heard Spock play in the Enterprise rec room, in the days before disease-stiffened fingers made using his lyrette impossible. Across the room, the captain's eyes rose from his reading padd and grew distant.

The music ended on a single poignant note.

After a moment, Lauren cleared her throat. Her heart pounded as she ventured to say, "This exile must be very difficult for you. Separated from your friends, your home…your family. Sick—" that sounded so much better than 'dying'—"Sick and alone on an alien world."

Spock looked at her meaningfully and his eyes narrowed. "I am not alone."

"No. Whether you like it or not, I'm here." She took in a deep breath. "But you know what I mean, sir. One of the finest officers in Starfleet—" She stopped herself before she could say something irreparably stupid. "Of course they had no choice, I realize that. There are regulations…"

"Not your concern," he said in a raw voice. "And do not attempt to psychoanalyze me."

She lowered her flute into her lap. "Of course, you're right, Captain. I'm sorry, I don't mean to invade your privacy, but…there's something in all this I don't quite understand." Pausing to gather her courage, she plunged on. "Sir, it's about your family. Obviously your father can't join us here. As a Vulcan he's susceptible to infection. But your mother…and your daughter…"

"Impossible." Spock avoided her eyes.

"But if they test free of certain genetic factors, there's no medical reason for them to keep away.'

Spock twisted up from his chair in all-too-apparent agony. Lauren rose to help him, but the Vulcan straightened under his own power. Standing fiercely aloof, he rasped, "Doctor, I may be forced to endure your ministrations, but I will not tolerate any meddling into my personal affairs!"

Outside, a church bell rang.

Fighting tears, Lauren watched him go out the front door. As Spock's skimmer whined into the distance, she set out for the mission. She was waiting for Larry when he came into the rectory.

Her twin brother easily read her dark mood, and his blue eyes twinkled with amusement. "Boss giving you a hard time again?"

"The man's impossible!" she huffed. "And quit your smiling, Larry. It's not funny." And to prove it, she gave an impassioned account of the latest altercation.

After hearing her out, her brother said, "You have to stop treating him like a human. There could be some Vulcan reason for keeping his family at a distance. You know how they value being in control. Well, now a disease is controlling him."

Lauren scowled. "Now you're telling me to mind my own business. Well, my instincts tell me that sick people need their family."

"You and your instincts." The priest shook his head, and traces of gray glinted in his thinning blond hair. "For once let them rest, Laurie. Let this captain of yours work things out in his own way. Allow him his dignity, however harsh and senseless it might seem to you. If there's one thing you learn out here, it's to go easy, allow for differences, and never ever push."

"Patience." Not her favorite word. It was ironic how many people mistook her outward calm for inner serenity. Nothing was further from the truth, particularly at those times when her instincts were clamoring and her sense of justice offended. Times like today. "Patience," she repeated tiredly. "Easy for you to say, Larry. You don't have to live with the man or the instincts."

The priest looked at his sister fondly. "Laurie, everyone at the mission is praying for you…and for him."

Wondering what her captain would say about that made Lauren smile.

The skimmer was parked by Spock's cottage when she returned shortly after dark. It was a relief to know he had made it safely home, but she was in no hurry to tangle with him so soon again. He was not in the sitting room and his bedroom door was shut. In the kitchen she found residual signs of a liquefied meal. Good. He had taken care of himself, so for now she could grant him the privacy he wanted.

Hours later, she awoke to sounds of vomiting. Jumping off her pallet, she ran into Spock's bedroom and found the bathroom door locked. She considered crashing the flimsy panel—like all the inner walls, it consisted only of a woven matting. If Spock was hemorrhaging…

But in that case there would be little she could do for him, anyway. He had made it clear that he did not want any artificial form of life support—not even blood transfusions or intravenous feeding. Remembering what Larry had said about dignity, she stood helplessly outside the door, waiting. Finally the night went silent. Spock emerged from the bathroom, shaky on his feet and for once quite willing to accept her help.

"Any blood?" she asked.

Leaning against her, he nodded.

She got him back into bed and examined his throat. The sores showed signs of minor bleeding, but she suspected a far more serious hemorrhage from stomach ulcers. A quick sweep of the medscanner confirmed her suspicion. And the dehydration and anemia were already approaching critical levels. Hurriedly she prepared a remedial injection and pressed the hypo to Spock's arm.

"This will help," she promised, hoping it was true.

The captain shuddered slightly with each breath. His eyelids drooped shut. Wetting a cloth, Lauren dabbed at his feverish face, waiting, grateful for his Vulcan calm. If Spock understood what was happening, he had more than his share of guts. If he didn't know that his life hung in the balance tonight, she was not about to tell him. He'll figure it out soon enough, she thought with a grim look at the basin waiting beside the bed.

Suddenly Spock gagged. His eyes opened wide in animal panic and he reared up, clutching at his throat. Rolling onto his side, he began to heave. Fielding caught most of the blood in the emesis basin, but green spattered over the bed sheets and their nightclothes. So much of it! Why wasn't the medication working? Would he bleed to death right before her eyes?

"It's alright," she lied, rubbing the knotted muscles of his back. "It's slowing down now. It's almost over…"

…A strong hand settled on Spock's head and lingered, bringing a curious sense of peace.

"Thank you," a woman said. Then more quietly, "Doctor McCoy told me to lock up the medicine, just in case. He said Spock's never been afraid to die."

A man responded, "A Vulcan would do that?"

Her again. "If a Vulcan thinks it's logical. There's a tradition of ritual suicide among victims of plakir-fee."

Him. "Because of the pain?"

Her. "Because the disease strips away their ability to control it. Like you said, it controls them. It strikes at the very heart of the Vulcan Way."


	4. Directives for the Terminal Patient

Spock woke to a dusky red glow, and misery. For one confusing instant he thought he was in his quarters aboard the Enterprise and the light was from his attunement flame. Then he saw the blanket blocking the sunlight at the window and Doctor Fielding asleep on the bedroom floor. The sudden weight of recollection crushed him and there was no calming his mind. Not after the night's bitter agony and the promise of more pain to come. He had faced death before, but never like this. Not this slow, debilitating humiliation.

Now, there was ample time to consider the question of mortality—indeed, nothing but time, for he had strength for little else. He felt the blood seeping in his throat and resisted a fierce urge to cough. His stomach ached and churned with nausea. Soon he would be gagging and spitting into the basin again, his throat ripped by the effort. _Like his grandfather, Skon…_

Shakily he reached for the cup of water at his bedside and took a cautious, agonizing swallow. It did not help. As he returned the glass to the table, he noticed a sprayhypo beside it. Words whispered through his memory. _Ritual suicide…_

Lying back, he thought of his imperious great-grandfather. Solkar had been fond of saying, "Accept what you cannot change. Accept, endure, and dignify." Spock could see his strong proud features, the thick gray head of hair. He could almost hear the old one's voice, still vigorous despite his advanced age, striking fear in a boy's heart.

…"Spock! Not by your own effort. Close your eyes, open yourself and look inward. There in the stillness you will find peace and wisdom and the strength to endure. For a Vulcan it is the only Way."

Eight- _year-old Spock struggled to contain his emotions, but knew he was failing. He felt abandoned by the grandfather he loved. "But…but Skon took his own life—I heard it said. And suicide is a cowardly act."_

 _Solkar's voice snapped. "You are young and ignorant."_

 _Spock trembled as he recited from Surak, "One who bears suffering will develop and perfect self-control."_

 _"Pain that can no longer be controlled brings only shame. Any lack of control is shameful, not only for the individual, but for the entire clan." Watching Spock closely, he drew something from beneath his cloak._

 _It was Spock's first sight of a sturpa, but he had heard of the whips. His stomach knotted and tears spilled from his eyes. Vulcan parents never struck their offspring. The paternal grandfather administered any physical discipline deemed necessary for a child's development. In Spock's case, kindly Skon had never deemed such discipline necessary. Oh, why had Grandfather left him to this harsh man?_

 _Solkar grasped Spock by the collar. Eyes glittering coldly, he repeated, "Any lack of control is shameful, and you will be punished for it."_

 _Young Spock cried out as the whip struck…_

The cry jerked Lauren from a troubled sleep. Heart slamming, she hurried over her patient and used the medscanner. Delirium was making Spock restless. Moved to compassion, she gently touched his feverish cheek and murmured, "It's alright, it's going to be alright." But she knew it was a lie.

An hour later, her voice threatened to fail her as she spoke into her log. "The swiftness of Spock's decline has taken me completely by surprise. It's as if that fierce will of his has suddenly collapsed. Yesterday he ate, walked around, and took out his skimmer. Today…today he looks dead, already. Could it be the food I gave him? Not likely. Any nourishment should have a positive effect on his condition. I can't help wondering if it's me—if the upset of my presence precipitated this terrible decline. For months he objected to my assignment as his personal physician and barely let me near him. But now I have forced my way into his home, into the privacy that he cherishes. He knows I'm here to stay and he hasn't enough strength to do anything about it. The only way he can get rid of me is by—" She took a weary breath. "He resents me being here, that much is obvious. And today I've brought in a male Gamman nurse to care for his personal needs. What other choice do I have?"

 _Yes, what other…?_ As she turned off the recorder she thought, once again, of Spock's family on Vulcan. Any ordinary person would want their loved ones at their side. And one would think they had a _right_ to know, didn't they? His poor mother, his young daughter…

It took only a moment for Lauren to research the captain's contact information, but the order was printed in unmistakably bold letters. **NOTIFY ONLY UPON DEATH.**

Discouraged, she rose and was stretching the tension from her body when the nearby transceiver signaled an incoming message from Vulcan. "Onscreen," she ordered and the words that appeared made her feel like cheering.

Afterward, went out back. A thin haze of clouds cloaked the pink sky, filtering the afternoon sun, trapping in the heat. Despite her lightweight native tunic and flowing trousers, her skin felt prickly and damp with perspiration.

Suddenly she noticed a long-legged bird leashed to the gate. A child peeked over the bird's back.

Lauren motioned to her. {Hello. Come here.}

Windsong timidly approached and signed, {Hello. Where is the father-with-ears?}

Lauren couldn't resist smiling. With clumsy signs, she managed to make herself understood. {Your friend-with-ears sick today.}

The girl lingered until Lauren invited her inside and sat her down with a Gamman-style cookie. After checking on the patient and his nurse, her own stomach began to growl with hunger. She hadn't eaten much of anything since moving in, but the good news from Vulcan gave her an appetite. She was sharing flatbread and knar-cheese with Windsong when a tall, white-clad figure ambled into the kitchen.

Larry's eyes settled on Windsong. "So _there_ she is, the little scamp. Stuffing her face."

"Am I glad to see you," Lauren said, wiping her hands on napkin. She knew her eyes were twinkling with excitement. "Guess what?"

Her brother looked worried. "You went and did it. You got hold of his family."

" _They_ got hold of _me_."

"No."

"Listen to this." She lowered her voice. "Some guy contacted Ambassador Sarek and admitted to infecting Spock—deliberately. Right away, Sarek got in touch with the Enterprise and they gave him our location. Lady Amanda is already on her way."

"What about the girl?" Larry wondered. "Spock's daughter?"

"She can't come," Lauren said with regret. "Just enough Vulcan blood, it seems, to make her susceptible to plakir-fee, so she's staying behind with her grandfather." She thought of Sarek's succinct message, wishing he had been a little freer with his information. "I'd sure like to know more about that nameless informant. I hope he's not Starfleet."

"Well, whoever he is, you can be thankful that he got to Spock's family before you."

After Larry left with Windsong, Lauren returned to Spock's side and sent the nurse out for a well-deserved break. The thick rattle of Spock's breathing filled the room. _It looks and sounds like a death chamber,_ she thought with a shudder. Last night she had covered the window to encourage Spock to sleep late, and remembering the Vulcan preference for dim interior lighting, she had kept the blanket in place until now. But suddenly she had had enough of the dreariness. She yanked down the heavy red blanket, letting in a pleasant rush of light and fresh air. The captain stirred in his sleep.

She settled into a bedside chair to watch and wait. Sometime later she awoke from a light, dream-filled doze in which she was polishing the Starswift for Captain Spock. She saw at once that his condition was unchanged, but sensing something out of place, she tiptoed from the bedroom. She found the back door ajar, a small silvery face peeping through the opening. _Windsong again!_

Lauren signed, {Hello, little one.}

The child sidled into the kitchen as if the slightest move would send her scurrying. Securing a bouquet of crimson flowers with one elbow, she signed, {Is he still feeling bad?} Her eyes widened anxiously at the labored sound of Spock's breathing.

{Yes,} the doctor admitted sadly. {Very bad.} Thank goodness he was not crying out as he had during the night.

{These are for the sick one.} The child held out the flowers.

Acting on impulse, Lauren hugged her. The girl felt as fragile as moonbeams. Drawing away, the doctor signed brokenly, {You go back or trouble, maybe. Be sure ask Father first.}

With a smile, Windsong scooted out the door. Lauren exchanged the fresh flowers with yesterday's bouquet and placed them on Spock's windowsill, away from the bed. But after she left the room, a warm breeze blew through the window, spreading the fragrant pollen…

 _…He was on the cabin floor. There was no memory of falling—only a faint, nose-tickling drift of perfume on the air, strangely evocative of Doctor Lauren Fielding. At the thought of her, Spock's eyes turned to the hologram of Adrianna Lemoine on his desk. He had put it there to please his daughter, but now that T'Beth was off the ship, he had no reason to keep the holo in sight. Yet there it remained, as disturbing as the new doctor. He must remember to remove it._

 _Spock wondered why he was lying flat on his back until he tried to move. Pain refreshed his memory. It was the plakir-fee. Despite McCoy's medical potions, the bloody curse had brought on another seizure. Doctor McCoy..._

 _Spock vaguely remembered showering before changing into a uniform. It had been a slow, trying process. But there had been a reason for it…a special reason…_

 _Of course—the meeting with Doctor McCoy!_

 _He glanced at the chronometer he had begun wearing on his wrist. Among other things, the illness was destroying his natural time sense. He was shaken to see that McCoy was due any moment. If the doctor found him helpless on the floor, McCoy would send him right back to sick bay. Confined, closely observed…_

 _Spock strained to rise. Doing his best to ignore the pain, he threw what little strength he possessed into the effort and muscled himself to his feet. He was standing there, out of breath, when the chime sounded at his cabin door. There was no use pretending he had not heard. In a moment McCoy would enter, anyway. Silence guaranteed that the doctor would come rushing in._

 _Quietly clearing his throat, Spock called, "One moment!"_

 _He made it into a chair and attempted to slow his breathing._

 _"Spock?"_

 _He took another moment to compose himself before saying, "Enter!"_

 _Doctor McCoy came in holding a clipboard, but his eyes were on Spock, studying and appraising the condition of his patient. "Well," he said. "You're dressed."_

 _"Most observant," Spock remarked dryly._

 _It might have been grim humor pulling at McCoy's mouth, or something else entirely. Spock wasn't sure. The doctor's face was gray with fatigue as he took a seat and riffled through a series of printouts._

 _"It just doesn't add up. I've checked and double-checked. The whole damn crew tests clean—not a carrier in the bunch. And there's been no outbreak on Vulcan in over thirty years. Not a single case reported anywhere we've made port, either." The doctor's eyes narrowed as they settled on Spock. "The incubation period points to Arcturus."_

 _Spock felt his heart rate increase._

 _"Spock…when you took out the Starswift…where exactly did you go?"_

 _Spock considered for a long moment before phrasing his response. Assuming a puzzled frown, he said, "I…am not…"_

 _Predictably, McCoy jumped in. "You're not sure? Spock, either you remember or you don't."_

 _Spock maintained a silence, hoping that McCoy would mistake it for confusion._

 _After what seemed like a very long time, the doctor shook his head. "Well, keep trying to remember, will you? The infection had to have come from somewhere. Doctor Fielding suspects the Starswift itself. Who knows? Maybe she has something there. I had Memory Alpha check the 'Swift for any contamination. The results came up negative, but you worked on that thing for days, every inch of it. You might have picked up the infection and unwittingly cleaned away the evidence."_

 _"An interesting possibility," Spock murmured._

 _"Yes. In any case, I've reported this to the CDC."_

 _Spock tensed, and the resulting pain set his teeth on edge. "But not my family."_

 _"No Spock, not your family." McCoy riffled through the papers on his clipboard and unfastened one. "The CDC is supposed to track known carriers, but their records show none of them anywhere we've recently visited, including Arcturus. But who knows? They must have a hard time keeping tabs on these people. Here, have a look." Leaning over, he handed Spock the printout. "Recognize any of them?"_

 _It was a very short list—three women and four men. Spock's eyes settled immediately on a name. Hobbs, Jonas Blaine. His mind froze._

 _"Spock. Anything?"_

 _Spock saw a hand extended, felt the moist palm against his skin. Death is the true no-win scenario… The paper dropped into his lap. He closed his eyes._

 _"Nothing?" prompted McCoy._

 _The past could not be changed. Spock dragged his thoughts into the present and said, "I need to rest."_

 _Rising, McCoy retrieved the CDC printout and hesitated. "So that's all? You're not going to remind me that I'm the chief medical authority aboard ship? That I should have made the safepost decision, not Jim? You're not going to fight me over Gamma Vertas or Doctor Fielding?"_

 _Quietly Spock said, "I am through fighting..."_

"I'm through fighting…"

Straining to hear the words, Lauren bent over Spock. Delirious patients were known to spout a good many things, few worth repeating. But she would not have expected to hear defeatist language from the captain. Lauren busied herself with the medscanner, and its readings added to her surprise. She whistled softly. "Well now, look at that. You're doing a lot better this evening."

His temperature was down and every bodily system showed a slim but unmistakable improvement. There was nothing in her ongoing research to account for it. Nothing, that is, but those recessive human genes. No pureblooded Vulcan had ever rallied in the third and final stage of plakir-fee.

Just as Lauren was feeling a twinge of cautious hope, Spock doubled up with another coughing spell. There was some blood. Afterward he lay back, his skin a sickly yellow under the artificial light. She could almost see him battling the pain and desperately reaching for the healing trance that would never come. The part of his brain responsible for self-healing had been damaged in the initial onslaught of the disease. Typically, his center of pain control had also been impaired. Plakir-fee had left Spock as helpless as a human. Realizing what that must mean to a proud, self-reliant Vulcan, Lauren found it easier to forgive Spock's stubborn resistance to her.

She delivered a stiff shot of medication well ahead of schedule. It was becoming obvious that the orthodox palliatives were fast losing their effectiveness. Spock's gaze followed her as she went about straightening the bedding and fluffing his pillows, all the while wondering if she should warn him about his mother coming. As she fed him a few spoons of broth, she sadly wondered if he would survive long enough to protest Amanda's arrival. Five, maybe six days by diplomatic courier. That was asking a lot at this point. Yet surprisingly Spock spent a restful night and in the morning he kept down a blended drink.

With the nurse on duty, Lauren dove back into her research, only to be interrupted by Windsong again.

The child stood at the door with a packet of pollen cakes. {The father likes them,} she insisted. {He eats them.}

Lauren found that difficult to believe. The sweet native candy was something Windsong might enjoy, but the sugary treat could intoxicate a Vulcan.

Windsong's hands slashed the air. {They are for him!}

She was so insistent that Lauren wondered if Spock had actually been indulging in the cakes, perhaps to dull his pain. As the child of an alcoholic, the idea made her uneasy. Sometimes she wondered if the scars from her childhood would ever smooth out and leave her in peace. Searching Windsong's serious little face, she signed, {You take good care of Father. Flowers, candy. You…make him feel better. I think you…his special friend.}

Windsong seemed to relax. Her fingers moved hesitantly. {Are you…more special to him? Does he…do you…} One small hand settled over Windsong's heart in the common gesture of love.

Startled, Lauren gave an embarrassed smile. {No,} she signed. {I not…not…} She shook her head helplessly, wondering how to sign "girlfriend". She tried again. {He only…only…} Hoping Spock's ears weren't too sensitive today, she finished aloud, "He's just my cantankerous old boss."

She was glad when Windsong left for the orphanage. Since joining the crew of the Enterprise, she had managed to keep her emotions fairly steady, but now a handful of candy and a child's innocent question had opened up a Pandora's box of old insecurities. No, there wasn't any romantic involvement—not with the captain or anyone else. In some ways she was just as insular as Spock. She did not trust any man enough to let him near her.

After lunch she relieved the nurse and entered Spock's room. The captain was as silent and uncooperative as a granite statue. She watched him closely as she set the pollen cakes beside his bed. "Windsong brought these. She said you like them. You could have told me, I would have gotten some for you."

Spock turned his head aside. From the open window came a sound of church bells. Larry used them to regulate classes at the orphanage school.

Studying Spock's profile, Lauren settled into a chair. Now that a member of his family was on the way, there remained only one element missing from his care—an element clearly listed under Starfleet's Directives for the Terminal Patient. Considering the captain's unique background, she was not sure how it might apply to him.

With deep misgivings, she asked, "Captain…do you believe in God?"

That captured his attention. One slanted brow rose as his eyes found her. He rasped, "Vulcans do not worship a higher being. We pursue logic and truth."

Intrigued, Lauren pressed, "So you don't _worship_ —but do you believe in the existence of God?" The silence stretched and she went on, "My parents came from different faith traditions—Catholic and Jewish—so I learned a little of both. I never settled on either religion, but I've always believed in God…and an afterlife."

"How very interesting," Spock dryly remarked.

Lauren bit back an angry response and waited until she could trust her voice. Finally she asked, "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?" he asked in a bored manner.

As politely as possible, she let him have it. "I'm talking about your use of sarcasm. You say one thing and mean another. It's not honest. In fact, it's downright rude. If you don't believe in God, just say so instead of acting superior to someone who does."

His dark eyes settled on the patch of sky outside his window. Each word cost him an effort as he said, "I believe in the universe. Only that which can be touched or measured is real. At the end of life, life ends. From that point on, there is nothing."

Lauren felt a chill clear down to her toes. "Complete extinction. You really believe that."

"Yes."

She did a mental double take. "You…believe that. Belief and faith are pretty much the same thing. But of course, you have hard evidence that God doesn't exist. Something that you can touch or measure…"

When he gave no answer, Lauren left him to his solitary dignity.

 _…The door closed behind Fielding and young Spock saw that his father was approaching the point of exasperation. Still, he had to know. "But Mother says there is a God, a soul. Though they have been discarded from modern usage, the Vulcan words exist."_

 _With weary patience Sarek explained, "We have put such 'beliefs' behind us, and rely on facts alone."_

 _"But Mother—"_

 _"Humans will cling to their religious fantasies. The Vulcan Way is one of truth and logic."_

 _"And the katra."_

 _"Yes. A purely intellectual form of post-existence. I have shown you the vrekatras at Gol. They contain knowledge that is accessible to highly trained adepts."_

 _Spock remembered the lesson. "At the point of death, the katra can be transferred and enshrined in the vrekatra."_

 _Father's eyes brightened. "Precisely. A life spirit that is sufficiently advanced will sense death approaching and act to preserve its knowledge for use by future generations."_

 _Spock's quick mind seized on Sarek's terminology. "Father, you said 'spirit'. Are not the words 'spirit' and 'soul' interchangeable?_

 _"No, Spock. By 'life spirit' I meant the vivifying force of the body."_

 _Young Spock considered. "But Father, what is that force which gives life to the body?"_

 _Sarek easily replied, "A chemical process."_

 _Spock did not like thinking of himself as a chemical process. But sensing his father's growing impatience, he chose a new question. "If the katra can be saved by a fellow Vulcan at the hour of death, what if…one dies alone?"_

 _Father's eyes saddened. "Then all one's knowledge and wisdom is lost forever to the Hall of Ancient Thought."_

 _"But Father!" The childish complaint burst from Spock. "That is not fair!"_

 _…The darkness of Sarek's eyes bored into him, only now Spock was a man. Every word held the bitter sting of disappointment. "On some distant planet you sired a child without benefit of bonding. You took this woman freely, not driven by the heat of pon farr, but by your own animal passions. You behaved dishonorably. Spock," the name hissed like a curse from between his teeth. Then, silence. Drawing in a slow breath, he regained a measure of stern composure. "Spock—my son. At times I find it very difficult to understand you."_

 _"I wonder if Skon felt the same," ventured Spock, "when you took a human for your wife." For an instant he thought Sarek might actually strike him. But no, that would not be the Vulcan thing to do. A parent never struck his child, whatever the provocation. He lectured him, he shriveled him with icy stares, and he shunned him—but never, ever touched him in anger…or with affection._

 _"Yes," Sarek said coldly, "I took a human for my wife. For a bondmate, not a bed warmer—therein lies the difference. Need I explain it to you? Or do you actually equate your mother with…with…"_

 _"Adrianna." Spock's voice was brittle with repressed emotion. "Her name was Adrianna." A Sy-jeera, he might have added. A Sy-witch. But for T'Beth's sake—and perhaps his own, as well—he kept the full truth to himself. Assuming a carefully neutral tone, he said, "It is a fact. I violated the Vulcan customs of betrothal and bonding. I had relations with a woman, even knowing that I was promised to T'Pring. We were to be married."_

 _"Married." The disdain in Sarek's voice was difficult for Spock to bear. "I expected better from you. Customs are what unite a culture. They are a vital means to an end, and that end is the Vulcan life." He sighed deeply. "You were reared as a Vulcan son, even as my father trained me. Once again it would seem that you have chosen a different path for yourself."_

 _Spock faced his father, knowing that the wrong response could destroy their shaky bridge of communication, perhaps forever. All his life he had called himself Vulcan. But he was not truly Vulcan, any more than he was human. Gathering himself, he said, "You cannot expect me to follow the ordinary path. I am not ordinary and never will be. You, Father, determined that when you chose Amanda Grayson for your wife."_

 _Sarek glared at him in ominous silence. Was there to another rift between them? Another eighteen years of chill and indifference from his father the ambassador? But no, there came a subtle softening of Sarek's posture, a mute concession to the logic of Spock's words, and he said, "I have told you that the child is welcome. Under Vulcan custom—" he pointedly stressed the phrase "—T'Beth cannot be held accountable for the unfortunate circumstances of her conception. Only you can."_

 _Spock nodded acceptance. There remained only one matter to be settled. With Sarek acting as T'Beth's guardian, with the child living in his home, he would never go against custom and physically discipline her. However… "I know you will take good care of my daughter while I am away. I ask only one favor of you."_

 _Sarek waited._

 _It took courage for Spock to say it. "Do not let Solkar near her."_

 _Father's brows drew together. "Why?"_

 _"Because I ask it," Spock said, hoping it would be enough. If not…_

 _"After what you have done—you dare to ask—with no explanation?"_

 _"Yes," Spock said._


	5. Brink of Existence

The nurse brought Lauren out of her research to look at Spock. The captain was back in some other world—shivering, moaning, crying out in pained delirium. He fought the weight of his blankets as if they, not the disease, were suffocating him. The disease refused to follow its normal course. These crises came on so swiftly, with so little warning. From now on, the patient must not be left alone, even for a moment.

Taking her turn, Lauren bathed his face and listened to the odd snatches of slurred speech. She might have held a human's hand, but the thought of Spock's telepathic ability stopped her. She did not want him finding out about his mother or eavesdropping on any of her thoughts-especially one worry in particular: _the medications were almost useless now._

Later that day Windsong brought more flowers—a different variety with blue petals and smooth yellow centers. She presented them to Lauren apologetically. {He likes the red ones better, but these were all I could find.}

{Flowers beautiful,} Lauren signed to reassure her, but the child shrugged sadly.

Windsong had barely left when a friendly face appeared in the open doorway. Larry swung a sleeping pallet and roll of bedding off his shoulder, then brushed the road dust from his white pants. "Spock's mother will be needing this. How's he doing today?" Seeing his sister's grim expression, he added, "Hey, how are you doing today?"

"Lousy," Lauren admitted, "on both counts." On the verge of tears, she threw her arms around Larry and hid her face against his strong, broad chest. _What would she do without him? The only person she could really confide in._

"He's losing ground," Larry said.

She nodded. Wiping her eyes, she drew back. "Listen to him in there—fighting for every breath. Hurting like hell and nothing I do seems to help." She looked deep into Larry's blue eyes, hoping to find approval for what she was about to say. "I have an idea, but I want your opinion before I go ahead."

"Sounds serious."

"It is, Larry." She pushed wearily at a wavy tendril of hair that had escaped her braid. "His body is hardly responding to his prescriptions anymore. I've tried so many kinds. Now he's so weak, I've even had to back off on sedation for fear of sending him over the edge."

Larry looked at her in silence. Then, "So what's that leave? What exactly are you considering, Laurie?"

"A radical change of treatment. An entirely different kind of drug."

"Laurie, why do you want my opinion? I'm not a doctor. Shouldn't you be asking McCoy?"

"No," she said firmly. "Not about this. If I'm going to risk anyone's medical license, it'll be my own." Bracing for his reaction, she added, "You've heard of strardus."

Larry's eyes widened. "Strardus! But that's a street drug. It's illegal, it's addictive."

"One of the worst," Lauren quietly agreed. Part of her was revolted by the thought of injecting strardus into anyone's system, let alone a Vulcan. Chemical addiction was not a pretty sight. The specter of their father's drunkenness constantly reminded her. But there was another part of her that wept at the sight of needless suffering. "Larry, he's dying anyway. What difference does it make?"

He just stood there.

"No Vulcan in recorded history has ever survived a full-blown case of plakir-fee. Granted, Spock is technically half human, but I'm afraid that half is in all the wrong genetic places. All it's doing is prolonging the agony."

Larry looked toward the bedroom and chewed his lower lip. Spock could be heard moving restlessly, groaning. Soon the pain would have him crying out again.

"Go in," she urged, "Take a look for yourself. I have everything I need to synthesize the drug."

Larry came back into the kitchen, his brow furrowed. "You really think this is the right think to do? You're willing to put your license on the line?"

"I'm not willing to see him suffer. I'm not willing to kill him. So what choice does that leave?"

At sunset, blood began to seep steadily from Spock's nose and mouth. An ominous bubbling in his lungs confirmed everything Lauren had told her brother. She dropped into the bedside chair, her mind a gray whirl of indecision as she watched him struggle against the pain. _This was it. What was she waiting for?_ Minutes crept by as she sat frozen, smelling the scent of death and hating it. She had known from the first that he was dying and thought she was prepared for it. Now, suddenly, she found herself caring more deeply for this patient than she would have believed possible. She found herself torn by a medical decision that should have been childishly simple. If only she could have saved him! But no. The man was dying. He was in distress. _Now it's up to you, Laurie._

She sent the nurse from the room. Rising, she used her fingers to smooth Spock's hair, combing the shaggy growth into a semblance of his once meticulous Starfleet cut. But his thrashing disarranged it again. _If only a simple caress could ease away all his pain, and caring alone could comfort him._

Fighting back tears, she whispered, " I'm sorry…I'm so sorry…"

His eyelids fluttered open, then closed again. His chest rose and fell in shallow gasps. He choked. More blood welled from his mouth, staining the fresh pillowcase. Lauren reached for a damp cloth…

… _Spock felt moisture on his face…cool and clean and wet. Dipping his head under the pond water, he gazed once again at the luminescent blue creatures darting and splashing about in the dark of night. There was nothing sinister about them. The legends were only that—foolish stories concocted by old priests to keep the temple pond clear of children. Feeling wise beyond his nine years, Spock reached out and brushed the playful kamukim with his fingertips._

 _-Suddenly he was choking! He grabbed for his throat, but his collar cinched still tighter as a great force yanked him upward. His feet landed on solid ground and there he stood, sputtering like a land-stranded drelfish, dripping water. He wiped his eyes in preparation to break and run, but what he saw chilled his heart and weakened his knees._

 _This was no temple guardian or passerby who had seized him, nor even Sarek come looking for his errant son. The hand on his collar was Solkar's, as heavy and cruel as the old man's eyes. Spock saw the sturpa in Great-Grandfather's free hand. His stomach sickened with dread. Slow, hot tear slid down his cheeks._

 _Solkar's voice rumbled like thunder. "Curiosity will be your undoing. Never satisfied, always questioning. And now…once again... tears." With a look of distaste, he swiped at Spock's face with a lean musician's finger. Then using the same finger, he pointed at the bench._

 _Spock stood frozen with hatred. No! No more pain! No humiliation! Let it end here and now…_

 _Death was so near. Stretching forth his arms, he offered himself to the elements, welcoming the darkness, inviting it. He hovered at the brink of existence…_

 _A startling onslaught of warmth drew Spock back from the edge. There was no name for the intoxicating rush of pleasure that made him cling once again to life. The walls of his mind swayed. The dream-shadows writhed and shifted into new, fascinating forms…_

 _Trees surrounded him. Fully grown, Spock sat and stared at an interesting specimen of moss on the forest floor. There was a woman beside him, so near that their legs touched. Turning, he looked upon the golden-haired vision. He felt himself sinking into the amber-yet-blue depths of her eyes and could not stop it. Her lips found his and he returned the kiss fully. Without the slightest twinge of conscience, he initiated the mindplay reserved for Vulcan lovers…_

Lauren had lost track of time. It seemed like forever since she had pressed the hypo of strardus to Spock's arm, a bleak eternity with her head cradled in her arms, slow senseless tears wetting the sheet beside Spock's hand. He was quiet now, but alive. And she had to wonder, _why should it matter so much to her if he died?_ She hardly knew the man, really, and none of their exchanges had been truly pleasant. He was so cold, so distant. Sometimes her reminded her of— _Great, just what I need now. Acute 'daddy_ _syndrome'_. That's what came of consorting with biocomps instead of real live patients. Real dying patients. _Grow up. Death is a part of life—as natural as being born. Stop treating it like a tragedy._

Lauren was repeating the litany, working up her defenses, when there was a subtle movement beside her. Spock's hand came into contact with her cheek. The touch produced a fleeting, electric sensation—or was it only her imagination? She lay absolutely still, scarcely breathing, while she concentrated on the warmth of his fingertips. _There it came again—only stronger!_ At the curious rush of impressions, she bit down on her lip. This was no ordinary touch.

The fingers on her face shifted, and a something delightful caught her. With a gasp she felt a sharing, a knowing, a needing…and realized that she was no longer alone. _Spock! Could it be?_

Lauren tipped her head slightly and dared to look at him. His eyes were open, dilated, beckoning to her. Heart slamming, she held his hand to her face and moved closer, and closer still. Though their gaze held, she no longer saw him, but saw _inside_ him. Her lips brushed the hot skin of his cheek…

She might never have noticed the small figure watching silently from the doorway if Windsong hadn't dropped some of her flowers. At the faint sound Lauren drew away from the captain, breathless. A silvery stare fixed her. The remaining blossoms fell to the floor.

With shaky hands Windsong signed, {I…I did not mean…I found the door open…no one came…and I had flowers…so…so…} The child turned and ran.

A searing rush of embarrassment snapped Lauren back to reality and she rushed after the girl. She was nowhere in sight. By now she would be halfway to the rectory, bursting with news for Father Larry.

Lauren stood in the kitchen, her mind awhirl from the strange encounter with a supposedly asexual Vulcan, her commanding officer, her dying patient. _Dying?_ Well, there was certainly a little life still left in him to have affected such an intense, sensual exchange. _He_ had initiated it, no doubt of that. With no encouragement from her, he had worked some sort of telepathic enchantment—not that it had taken much to overwhelm a weary, emotional human. _How dare he!_

Then she remembered the strardus. Side effect number three: sexual impulses.

Working up her courage, Lauren went back into the bedroom. Spock appeared to be sleeping. How could he lie there looking so peaceful and innocent? Well, she had learned a thing or two about Vulcans today.

Scooping up the scarlet flowers from the floor, she added them to the blue bouquet on the windowsill. Their refreshing scent could not dispel her worry over the embarrassing incident. How was she going to face Spock when he awoke? _Maybe he won't remember. The man was sick, drugged out of his mind, probably didn't know what he was doing._

But a small, troubling voice in the back of her mind whispered, _They say Vulcans never forget…_

ooooo

Larry didn't come around that night. But the pain did—sudden searing waves that gnawed Spock awake before midnight and sent the nurse running. Lauren left the biocomp and found the captain curled in on himself, dull-eyed, teeth grinding in agony.

It was the plakir-fee, made even more painful and acute by the craving for a second dose of strardus. She had know what the drug could do, but had not expected such a volatile rebound in a Vulcan. Perhaps if she had been thinking of Spock rather than her own emotional comfort, she would have kept a closer watch on him.

The sprayhypo was loaded with a strardus-laced cocktail and ready to administer. Lauren observed its swift, amazing effect as Spock's pain ebbed away and his muscles relaxed. Only this time, instead of drifting to sleep, the captain rolled onto his back and looked at her through drug-dilated eyes.

Lauren's insides did a crazy flip-flop. She tried to slip the hypo into a pocket that wasn't there, then gave up and set it on the bedside table as if she had nothing to hide.

In a thick whisper Spock asked, "What…what did you give me?"

She felt her face reddening. Clearing her throat, she said, "Just some meds. And copper for your anemia. Looks like it's helping."

His eyes sought out the hypo. Stretching out an arm, he managed to take hold of it and study its dosage setting. Either he lacked the strength for further questions or he decided that the freedom from pain was worth any price. He returned the sprayhypo without comment.

Lauren went to a four-hour injection schedule and it seemed to be working. A common pattern developed. One hour of sleep, two wakeful hours during which he took in some water and nourishment, followed by a final hour of increasing restlessness until the next dose. The strardus gave Spock periods of crystalline alertness that made Lauren extremely uncomfortable. _What did he think_ _about when he looked at her? The sensual mindtouch? The feeling of her lips on his face?_ Because he never mentioned the incident, she almost convinced herself that he didn't remember a thing.

Feeling a little less awkward, she relieved the nurse and lugged her biocomp into the bedroom so she could update her work while Spock did whatever it was he was doing as he lay so quietly in bed. Since his recent efforts at conversation had been reasonably civil, she was shocked when the Vulcan lashed out at her.

"Tell me," he grated acidly, "do you find me to be a sufficiently interesting project?"

Astonished, Lauren spun in her chair. "Pardon me?"

"I see no reason to pardon you." The flame in his eyes spoke of drug-rush and fever and bitterness. "Courtesy has no place between a research scientist and her specimen."

"Specimen!" Anger boiled up as Lauren recalled the months' worth of emotions invested in this insular, cold-blooded excuse for a man. So that was how he thought of her—as some kind of heartless opportunist who had seized on his suffering as a chance to make a name for herself. Rigidly she rose up and walked over to him. _"Specimen,"_ she choked. "I guess you think everyone else is just like you! That's it, isn't it? You can't conceive of anyone caring enough about someone else to lose sleep over him, to worry sick over him, to cry over him. That's just not logical, is it? Well, from now on, just keep your Vulcan hands off me!"

She had lost her temper. She had gone too far, said too much. Turning, she fled from the room and huddled alone in the kitchen. In that moment she hated Spock wholeheartedly and despised herself even more for revealing just how much he had meant to her. _As if he cared. As if he cared about anyone._

Lauren was still calming down when someone knocked at the front door—softly at first, then louder and more insistent when she failed to answer right away. Expecting the nurse, Lauren went over and opened the door. She was surprised to find a grey-haired human lady standing on the porch.

"Yes?" Lauren blurted.

The woman said, "My name is Amanda Grayson. Are you Doctor Fielding?"

It took an instant for the name to register. _Spock's mother!_ Lauren wasn't sure what she had expected, but it wasn't this very gracious looking person waiting anxiously in the doorway with a traveling bag. "Well, hello!" she managed to say. "Yes, I'm Lauren Fielding. Come in, come in. Welcome, Mrs…"

"Amanda will do." Looking worried, she stepped in and glanced around the small sitting room and adjoining kitchen. "Doctor, is he…? Am I too late?"

Lauren was a little ashamed that she had left Spock alone, even for a short time. But his occasional labored cough had assured her that he was alright. "He's in the bedroom," she said. "Please, call me Lauren. I'm so glad you've come."

They formed a solemn guard at Spock's bedside. He was sleeping again, his face gaunt but free of pain. Obviously Amanda had prepared herself for this moment. There were no tears, no lamenting the cruel twist of fate that was stealing away her son's life. But she was white to the lips as she bent to touch his face and whisper a private word in the gracefully pointed ear.

Without tearing her eyes from him, Amanda said in a hushed voice, "If only there were some hope…"

Lauren wished her response could be less bleak. "It's a sign of incredible stamina that he's made it this long. Stamina, and a good dose of your human genes."

 _…Spock heard his mother's voice, and as he passed near the doorway he also heard a man. He stopped. Openly listening, he edged closer to the living room and peered around the corner. Hobbs was sitting in Father's chair—laughing. There was a smile on Mother's face as well, but it abruptly died as she glanced over and caught him watching her._

 _"I didn't realize you were home, Spock. Will you join us?"_

 _He wished now that he had ignored the voices and gone straight to his room, but it was too late for such an easy escape. He had no choice but to step forward. "I do not wish to intrude, Mother."_

 _Hobbs twisted around in Sarek's chair and smirked up at him. "Only eavesdrop. Right, Spock lad?" Before anyone could react to his words, he rose and bowed charmingly to Amanda. "Forgive me M'lady. I really must be leaving. Miles to go before I sleep, and so on. Thanks for a lovely time."_

 _Hobbs strolled from the house as if he owned it. The front door closed._

 _Amanda stood up, her eyes smoldering. "Come here, Spock."_

 _This past year he had grown as tall as Sarek. Always small for his age, at long last he had attained the stature of a man, and he was proud of his new height. But legally he remained a child living in his parents' home, subject to their authority. It was a situation he found increasingly difficult to accept. Anger and shame and a surging rebellion fought for dominance in him as he obediently moved forward. She was his mother, yes. But what right had she to rebuke him—she who consorted with a man who was not her husband?_

 _"Spock." Her voice was sharp, human. "Jonas was right, wasn't he? You were eavesdropping."_

 _This once, Spock was very tempted to excuse himself, to rationalize his unmannerly behavior. He was tempted to speak his mind concerning Mother's relationship with Professor Hobbs. But the cultural restraints were strong in him. A son should not correct his mother any more than he should lie to her. He felt his face burning and looked down, hard and unrepentant, at the floor. "Yes," he admitted._

 _"And this wasn't the first time, was it?"_

 _"…No," he forced out, and angry words burst from him. "Why are you so concerned, Mother? Have you something to hide?"_

 _She slapped his face…_

…Stunned, Spock opened his eyes. A gentle hand touched his cheek and there was no anger in his mother's face as she gazed down at him. He struggled with confusion, his mouth dry, his throat raw. A straw touched his lips and he swallowed a little water.

"Spock," she said sadly, "Spock…"

Voices followed him back into the darkness, faceless but familiar voices that he found deeply disturbing. _"…arrived so quickly." "Hemorrhaging stopped for now…lungs clearing a bit." "Diplomatic privilege…warp eight all the way from Vulcan." "If only I could talk to him…" "Maybe tomorrow…tomorrow…tomorrow…"_

Spock awoke. Morning sun streamed through the window, lighting two figures sitting near the bed. _Was he dreaming?_ As he blinked to clear his vision, there was no mistaking the bitter reality. His mother rose from a chair and smiled at him.

Spock cast Doctor Fielding a grim look of accusation.

"It wasn't her doing," Amanda said quickly. "I learned of your illness from an old Terran acquaintance, one of your former instructors at ShiKahr."

The shock of her words struck Spock like another slap.

Doctor Fielding was reaching for her medscanner when Amanda said, "Please. If I might be alone with my son…"

For once Spock wished Fielding would stay nearby. He did not want to hear what his mother had to say. He hadn't the strength for any distressing confrontations. An ache lodged in his throat as the door closed behind the doctor. He bit down hard on his lower lip, but the formula of Vulcan mastery eluded him.

Quietly Amanda said, "It's time we talk about Jonas Hobbs."

Spock turned his face to the wall and hoarsely said, "You need not have come. There was no reason for you to see this."

 _"No reason?"_ his mother echoed, incredulous.

"I prepared messages on the Enterprise for each of you. Upon my death, they will be automatically sent."

"Automatically." The word was little more than a sigh. "Do you think that's how we wanted to find out? Your father…and T'Beth. The child is beside herself. If only she could have come…"

 _"No,"_ Spock insisted.

Amanda was silent for a time. "Very well then, _that_ subject is closed—but we _will_ talk about Professor Hobbs. We _must."_

There was no way to stop her.

"Spock…those were difficult days for you, I understand that now. Caught between the divergent philosophies of two worlds—torn between your own life's vision and Sarek's carefully laid plans for your future. Not yet a man, but no longer a boy. And as if that weren't enough, along came Jonas."

Spock wanted to shut out her voice She would not be so gentle with him if she knew the full truth. Swallowing painfully, he forced himself to meet his mother's gaze, but the half-formed words stuck in his throat.

"Don't speak," she cautioned, "not a word, not yet. Once…I might have felt differently. Once, I _demanded_ apologies from you."

All too well Spock remembered that jealous, unreasonable period of his youth. He had been shocked by the way his mother acted when she was with Hobbs—the easy laughter, the touching, and many casual breechings of the Vulcan custom that comprised his young world. He had thought Sarek a fool for tolerating such improprieties, while it was Spock who had been the fool for not accepting human norms, for not even trying to understand them.

"You saw Jonas as a threat," she said. "Strange that I didn't realize it back then, but at times you behaved almost… _humanly."_ She caught his shoulder as he tried to turn away. "No, Spock! I'd hoped that living among humans would lead you to accept the human part of yourself, but you still shrink from it, don't you? You even shrink from the humanness in me—your own mother."

"No!" The denial tore at his throat, less than honest but not entirely a lie, either. His feelings toward his mother had always been painfully ambivalent, and never more so than at this difficult moment.

Tears welled in Amanda's eyes. "You were right, you know—about Jonas. He contracted plakir-fee during the ShanaiKahr outbreak. He had to leave Vulcan—that's why he secluded himself at the Minora station all those years." Taking a tissue from the bedside table, she dabbed at her eyes and nose. "He wanted to kill you, but not for anything you might have done. He did it to hurt me—" She paused, barely in control of her voice. "He did it because I refused to leave Vulcan with him."

In his mind Spock saw domes sprouting like poisonous mushrooms from the desolate Minora moonscape. He felt a moist handshake, surprising in its strength. _Revenge—not against him, but against his mother!_ The thought of what might have happened that long-ago day on Vulcan sickened him. _If she had left with the professor—_ The sickness deepened and he began to gag. Then he was retching. Pain lanced through his insides, but he could not stop…

ooooo

Spock had drifted out of consciousness. As Lauren washed away the last traces of blood from his mouth, she tried to be reassuring for Amanda's sake. "It wasn't too bad a spell. The hemorrhaging was minimal."

Amanda had lived long among Vulcans and had studied the disciplines, but now she looked on in horror. "You mean there's been worse?"

Lauren paused long enough to glance at her and smile wanly. "He really is doing much better today."

Amanda stared at her son's deathly pale face. "Doctor…I don't understand. How can there be any improvement at this late stage? Could it mean…do you think there's any chance, however slim…"

Lauren refolded the washcloth and gently pressed it to the captain's brow. Somewhere in the middle of the crisis she had forgotten her anger toward him, or at least set it aside. Like Amanda she found herself wondering if these small rallies might actually mean that Spock's human genes were getting a foothold on the disease. _Whoa there,_ she thought, _don't get caught up in a rush of false_ _hope_. Yet there was a growing sense that something significant was happening, something important was about to occur. And over the years she had come to trust her instincts.

At last she simply said, "From your lips to God's ears."

Taking advantage of the quiet moment, she administered the now-regular dose of strardus and ran a quick scan-analysis of his condition. So far Amanda had not asked any questions about her son's drug regimen. Thankful, she went out to the living room, downloaded the readings into her biocomp, and set to work.

 _…Liquid heat spread through Spock's veins like star-shine, warming him from the inside out. Excitement mounted, forcing his fears aside. Hurrying through the night, he felt superbly alive…and guiltier than he had ever felt before in his young life._

 _But logic helped to overcome any lingering doubts. Family was of paramount importance. Professor Hobbs was endangering the integrity of Spock's family, and now Spock would effectively remove that danger. Surely his actions were justified, even though they would be considered criminal in a court of law._

 _Spock tread softly along the walkway of ShiKahr Secondary Academy, keeping near the wall where his dark clothing hid his movements among the shadows. There were no students or teachers about at this late hour. He picked up his pace and slipped unnoticed into the huge stone building that housed, among other things, the school's computer system. Vulcans saw little need for locks or surveillance equipment. With knowledgeable ease he worked his way through a series of empty rooms and corridors until he came at last to the only restricted area on campus: Main Computer Access._

 _Palms sweating, he used the thumb model he had created by lifting Professor Hobbs' print from a glass back home. There was a faint, well-oiled click and the heavy door slid open…_

"Spock," a voice spoke nearby.

Startled, he opened his eyes. A vase of scarlet flowers sat on a windowsill. Outside, the sky was overcast. A balmy breezy carried the promise of rain. _So it was only a memory, after all._ He began to relax until he noticed the woman seated nearby.

"Spock," she said again, softly. "How are you feeling?"

 _How was he feeling?_ He had deliberately set out to discredit his instructor, and had succeeded. He had let the injustice go uncorrected for decades.

Swallowing with difficulty, he said, "There is something I must tell you about Professor Hobbs."

"No, wait." Amanda rose. Taking both his hands in her own, she firmly squeezed them. He sensed no anger in her, no recrimination. But that would soon change. Releasing his hands, she continued, "Not a word until you hear everything I have to say. There was a scandal involving Jonas when you were sixteen. It looked as if he was fixing test scores at the Academy. The whole affair was kept very quiet. That's the Vulcan way. But _you_ knew about it, didn't you?"

Spock nodded, his heart pounding hard.

Amanda sighed. "The night the computer was compromised…I discovered that you were missing from your bedroom."

Spock wished the disease would take him. Now… quickly.

His mother seemed equally ill at ease. "Of course…you realize the mental union with a Vulcan spouse leaves little room for secrets. Sarek also came to know that you were missing, but for his own reasons he chose not to confront you. He chose to believe that my suspicions were unfounded."

"Mother…" he began.

She shook her head. "Spock, I'm not going to ask which of us was right. I don't want you to tell me because I don't _ever_ want your father to know. As for Jonas—I have no idea what he told you on Minora, but he was cleared of any wrong-doing before he left Vulcan."

ooooo

By late afternoon Lauren was starting to feel optimistic. Maybe seeing his mother was good for Spock. His most recent blood panel showed marked improvement and he seemed to gain strength all day. Was it her imagination or did the sickly yellow of his skin have a tinge of Vulcan green?

As dinner approached, Spock actually said he was hungry. When he put in a request for a particular fruit, Lauren did not mind that it meant a hurried dash to the marketplace before it closed, or that she had planned something else for his meal. It felt good to get out on such a hopeful errand. Raindrops were starting to spatter the windshield when she parked the skimmer. She rushed under the awning of the open-air market and headed for the fruit section. Rounding a display of melons, she almost bumped into Larry and Windsong. At sight of her the child locked her small hands behind her back and scowled. Larry smiled the tight, frosty sort of smile that could only mean trouble."

"Hey Laurie," he said coolly. "I'm a little surprised that you'd leave your patient…in his condition."

She felt like kicking him in the shins. "I wouldn't dream of leaving Spock alone. His mother's there, along with the nurse. And he's doing better." She couldn't resist adding, "The man had physical qualities that astound me."

Larry squeezed a bollo-fruit and mumbled, "You oughta know."

Lauren ignored him. Slinging her purse over her shoulder, she signed at Windsong, {Sorry you unhappy. A kiss…} She struggled with her limited vocabulary. {Sometimes…a kiss…help.}

Windsong's frown eased a little. She brought out her hands, slow, hesitant. {It helped him?}

Lauren brushed off Larry's glare and shrugged as she signed. {You help him. He not forget you…or gifts.}

The child grew thoughtful. Before Larry could stop her, she snatched a tightly wrapped package out of his shopping basket and pressed it into Lauren's hands. {Pollen cake—for him.}

Larry's fingers slashed the air. {Windsong, those were yours!}

"It's more blessed to give than to receive," Lauren said with a charming smile. "Remember, Larry?"

She got back to the cottage at dusk and gave Spock the pollen cake with his blended meal. Afterward she casually slipped him an injection of strardus before leaving him in the nurse's care.

Rain pelted the roof, spattering against the tightly shut windows in stormy bursts. In the kitchen Amanda busily chopped and sautéed ingredients for a Vulcan-style dinner. A delicious curry-like aroma filled the rooms, making it difficult for Lauren to concentrate on anything but her growling stomach. Maybe if she just set aside the biocomp until after she ate…

But no, every minute mattered. A growing feeling of urgency had kept her working through most of the night, and she had to keep at it. Somewhere in this mess of data she was missing something vitally important. She _felt_ it.

 _Could it be the strardus?_ Spock had improved markedly since receiving the injections, but she could find no conclusive evidence that the drug was doing anything more than simply relieving his pain. Even before going on the drug, his physical condition had far surpassed the norm for such a devastating disease. He should have been dead long ago—but he wasn't. _Why?_

There was the easy answer. As Lauren flexed the stiffness from her shoulders, her eyes lit on Amanda. _Spock's mother. Human_ _blood. Human characteristics._ But enough to throw off a millennia-old prognosis? If so, what was the crucial difference? Where did it lie? Why couldn't she find it and use it?

At her command the computer recalled Spock's every physiological deviation from the Vulcan norm. A long list of variants arranged themselves on the screen. Nothing new appeared. She had memorized them. Still hoping, she ordered the computer to search out every correlation between the variants and hour-by-hour changes in Spock's condition. Only eight of the variants remained, the same maddening eight that were so easily explained by ordinary environmental influences, or even psychological influences like his mother's arrival. She let out such a deep sigh of frustration that Amanda paused in her cooking to look at her.

"Is…something the matter?" Amanda asked, obviously fearing for bad news.

Lauren gave a reassuring smile. "I'm just worn out, that's all." Standing, she stretched and wandered over to the kitchen. "That sure smells good. Can I help?"

Amanda visibly relaxed. She must have seen how much Lauren needed something simple to do; something that would show immediate results. Handing over a bowl of fuzzy brown pods, she said, "Here, you can crack these open for me. Watch out for the juice, though. They're messy."

Lauren set the bowl on the counter and pushed aside another of Windsong's bouquets. She really liked Spock's mother. There were a hundred or so questions she would have liked to ask about her halfling son, if Spock weren't such a painful subject. _For both of us,_ she realized.

Out of the blue Amanda said, "I'm surprised Spock can tolerate that pollen cake. He's always been so sensitive to pollens. Back home I have a garden full of barrel cacti from Earth. The Vulcan sun is too hot, so Sarek had a sort of trellis built over them. They fascinated Spock when he was a boy and if I wasn't paying attention, he'd sneak in to see those flowers, even though they made his nose run." She tossed more vegetables into a skillet. "Full-blooded Vulcans aren't bothered with hay fever, but Spock was. And needless to say, I pulled a good many cactus spines out of his fingers."

Trying to imagine the captain as a mischievous little boy made Lauren smile. "Do you have any pictures with you—from when he was a child?"

"I do." She cast Lauren a conspiratorial glance. "If you promise not to tell him, I'll show you after dinner."

Lauren's smile widened. How good it felt after so many grim weeks, but a stab of guilt followed. _Yes, Spock was better, but she was kidding herself if she thought he'd come out of this alive._

Resolutely she stabbed her fingers into a tough brown pod. Scarlet juice spurted over her hands, red and rich as Windsong's flowers _._ Lovely and red and _…bloodlike. Not green blood, but red. Human blood with human characteristics._

Pollen drifted from the nearby blossoms, tickling her nose. _Like little Spock and the cactus. Stubborn even back then. It would serve him right if those flowers of his sent him straight into—"_

Deep in Lauren's mind, an idea stirred. Her head came up. Quickly wiping her sticky fingers on a towel, she rushed to the biocomp and set to work, oblivious to Amanda's wondering gaze. The rising certainty was like an itch inside her—an _allergic_ itch. _Could it_ _be?_ With a few well-directed commands, al the loose ends of data slowly evolved into a cohesive unit. A chemical formula appeared on the screen.

 **C5 H9 N3**

And she had been worrying about Spock's stuffy nose!

Lauren laughed aloud at the wondrous simplicity of it. All along, it had been Windsong. Her steady supply of flowers and pollen cakes had caused a human chemical to flood Spock's hybrid system—a chemical that inhibited the Vulcan virus in his system. _Human histamine!_


	6. Stardust

It was almost an hour since Spock had self-administered the shot left for his use. The night was so still that he heard the soft sounds of his doctor sleeping in the next room. Though it was a relief having his bedroom all to himself, at the worst of his illness there had been an undeniable comfort in knowing someone was always near—even when that someone was Lauren Fielding. Feelings of dependency were natural in one crippled by pain and weakness. It did not mean that he had ever really approved of her presence. With his mother back on Vulcan and the nurse dismissed, tonight he was completely alone with the doctor.

Lying in the darkness, he tried to put her out of his mind, along with the lingering effects of her histamine therapy. She was just another symptom to endure. Asthma and congestion, itching, dizziness, nausea…and Lauren Fielding.

There was also the threat of pain—banked like a fire, still smoldering just beneath the surface, always waiting to break forth and consume him again. Would it never leave him completely? Regular injections kept the discomfort in check, but the first minutes of relief threw his mind into complete disarray. _Was that the price he must pay?_ Free of the agony, he could move about now with only a moderate stiffness in his joints. The ulcers in his mouth and stomach were completely healed. He could digest solid food and speak in a clear voice, without pain. Though still very weak, he was going to live—the first Vulcan in history to survive third stage plakir-fee. _No, that was not accurate._ If he were entirely Vulcan, he would be dead now. The part of himself that he had always considered the weakest—the human part—had proven to be the strongest in this instance. There was some question as to whether histamine therapy would ever work effectively in a fully Vulcan body. For the sake of his people he hoped Doctor Fielding could develop a successful treatment.

 _His _ people—a telling choice of word. Because of a human mother, he was alive—yet still thinking of Vulcans as his people. He must remember that humans were also his people. And that should not be so very difficult. After all, his closest friends were human. He had lived most of his life among humans and had even come to acknowledge the value of positive emotions. Out of respect for humanness, he had asked his mother to go home to T'Beth once his recovery was certain. The child had been alone with Sarek for much too long. She would need human warmth, the gentle reassurance only her grandmother could offer.

Spock turned his thoughts to the coming day, and the Enterprise. He was glad the ship was arriving, with its disciplined routine. Though he was not fit for command, he could certainly teach the trainees while trying to recondition himself physically and mentally for the captaincy.

He felt his mind tiring and reached for the lyrette propped against his bent knees. Very, very lightly he touched its strings. They hummed beneath his fingertips, resonant and inviting. He plucked it. The soft music evoked many images, bringing on the misty, timeless state that claimed him so often these days. He imagined Lauren Fielding providing a pleasant harmony on her flute…

His fingers went still.

 _Blast you, Jim, for sending that woman along!_

 _"Spock." Kirk looked at him, obviously hurt. "She was the best one for the job, you know it's true."_

 _I don't want her here._

 _"Dammit Spock, she saved your life."_

 _He could not argue with that. "Jim…?"_

Spock searched the shadows. The room was empty. He listened for his doctor, fingers trembling over the lyrette. Like a willing woman, the instrument responded to him, murmuring the ancient language of passion. Ashes of a long-ago passion, patient embers burning, waiting, ready to explode…

He found himself standing in his bedroom doorway. A light sweat chilled his skin as he leaned, bare-chested, against the doorframe and struggled to clear his mind. He grit his teeth with the effort to restrain his body, turn aside, sit on the bed. Digging his fingernails into the flesh over his ribs, he hugged himself tightly. Gradually the roar of desire faded to a dull, uneasy throb. _What_ _was happening?_ Snatches of memory taunted him. Golden tendrils curling on a forehead…delicate lashes above blue eyes…the sweet pleasure of his mind entering hers…

 _No,_ he protested, _it never happened! It could not have happened! It was only a dream…_

ooooo

Something roused Lauren. For a long moment she lay on her pallet, listening in the darkness. Had she really heard music? A few faint sounds came from Spock's bedroom, nothing alarming, yet her heart beat a little faster just knowing he was awake. She considered checking on him and decided against it. No doubt he had awakened at the proper time and injected himself. After all, he thought it was only medicine.

She did not feel sleepy anymore—hardly surprising on this last night at St. Vincent's. There was too much on her mind, her conscience. The Enterprise was on its way, and she still hadn't told Spock the truth. Maybe it would be better to consult Doctor McCoy first.

 _Maybe? Face it, Laurie, you're scared silly. You know Spock's going to tear into you when he learns how you've messed him up. Never mind that he messed around some with you, too. His Highness the Captain would never equate his precious self with—_

Lauren stopped herself. She disliked the bitterness growing inside her, did not understand why it was taking root. After all, she had campaigned for this duty—it was all her idea. She had known enough about Vulcans to realize the emotional risks. She had seen Captain Spock in action enough times to know that he did not operate like a human. Nothing he said or did should have surprised her in terms of coldness. Of course he would not acknowledge that she had saved his life. In Vulcan thinking, she had only done her work efficiently, and one did not thank efficiency. One _expected_ it. Nor would one apologize for a seduction one pretended not to remember. That would be most illogical. Illogical in the extreme!

Smacking her pillow a few times, she turned over. He had no reason to thank her. When he found out what she'd done—what she'd secretly been doing to him six times a day, he'd _really_ have reason to hate her _. Oh, yes._ Somehow she felt sure that hate was one emotion her dispassionate captain could muster. Spock knew a think or two about dark feelings. In moments of pain and delirium she had sometimes glimpsed that raging man and he was still there somewhere, deep down beneath that Vulcan mask. Along with that _other_ man who reached out and touched her, _overwhelmed_ her with a powerful yet tender sexuality.

But why should it matter? Why should anything that man thought or felt or pretended _not_ to feel matter to her? Captain Spock was her commanding officer, her patient, her job—a job she had done well by any human standards. So, she had accidentally turned him into a drug addict. So, for awhile he would be shooting stardust into his arm just to keep from clawing his way through the bulkheads, just to feel normal for a couple of hours. So, for a while he wouldn't be commanding anything bigger than a hypo. At least he would be commanding something, at least he would be alive—living from one hit to the next, living _for_ the next hit… _Oh, but did matter! It did!_

ooooo

The hiss of a sprayhypo brought Spock fully awake. His arm stung as he sat up. Blinking in the pink morning light, he protested, "Really, Doctor, could you not have waited for—"

Fielding moved aside and Spock saw the white-clad figure standing in the doorway. It was her brother the priest. Not only had she disturbed his rest, she had also brought along a gawking relative.

"Reverend Fielding," he said with forced politeness.

"Captain Spock," the cleric responded with deep pity in his eyes.

Spock did not like pity, did not like _him_ , but the medication was finding its way through his veins, relaxing away the objections. A warm, pleasant flush raced through his body and he could not help but welcome the now-familiar feeling. His heart beat faster. His breathing quickened. The good heat sidled into his brain and he lay back on the pillows and began to drift. Voices followed him through the intoxicating layers of sensation…

 _"I don't like it, Laurie. What if he—" "Modern Vulcans aren't a violent people. And besides that, there's the discipline of the service." "Right, but how viable is that discipline now? Look at the man, will you?" "Don't you think I have? It's tearing me apart, I can't go on lying to him." "…Just a few hours more. What's the difference?" "The difference is, it's my responsibility, not McCoy's. I've evaded it too long already." "Then at least let me be there. I'll rearrange my schedule…" "Thanks Larry, but no thanks. I have to do this on my own, like a real grown-up doctor." "You're being stubborn, Laurie. I don't see any sense in—" "Bye, Larry. See you tonight at beam-up." "Damn right you will. And you better be in one piece, or else."_

ooooo

Being back in uniform felt strange to Spock—perhaps because it hung so loosely on his rail-thin frame. Doctor Fielding filled out every inch of _her_ uniform as she sat beside him in the skimmer. The afternoon was warm and clear, perfect for a drive. Spock had not been at the controls since the day he argued with Fielding and walked out on her.

That time, he had barely been able to handle the vehicle. Despite the vast improvement in his condition, the doctor had not wanted him to drive today. But he knew his capabilities. He may not be able to command a starship, but he was certainly fit enough to pilot a skimmer in a quiet rural area.

After a few minutes of silent flying, he veered off the main route and started up a long grassy incline. The tree-studded knoll was one of his favorite spots. He had brought Doctor Fielding here, away from the cottage and its unpleasant memories, hoping to express an apology that was long overdue. The conversation must not degenerate into another argument.

Halfway to the summit, the skimmer began to miss badly. Adjusting the fuel mix brought on a heavy shudder, and Spock was forced into a dead-stick landing. The skimmer jolted to the ground and there was a silence undisturbed but for the lazy drone of insects.

The doctor's blue eyes questioned him, but he did not know what to tell her. The power level was too low for the dashboard gauges to register properly. Stepping outside, he raised the hood. By the time Fielding joined him, he had isolated the problem.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

He shut the hood with more force than necessary. Folding his arms, he stared out at the pink horizon. "I'm afraid…it is out of fuel."

She laughed. He looked at her, surprised by the note of hysteria in her voice. "Oh, how rich!" she cried. "How utterly perfect! Now I suppose you're going to—" Abruptly she sobered. No— _froze_ as if frightened to death. "Sorry, sir. I…I meant no offense."

"None taken."

She looked aside, obviously tense and miserable. At first Spock did not understand her reaction, then with a rush of embarrassment the answer came to him. She had been comparing their situation to "running out of gas", that age-old ploy of sexually frustrated human males. Once stranded, such a male would attempt to seduce his female companion in the customary backseat, or on a green hillside such as—

But he was not a human male. And he was not—

The circumstances were indeed awkward and Spock had only himself to blame. Checking the fuel supply had completely slipped his mind, like so many things these days. Then he remembered that during his illness the doctor had been using the skimmer, not him. Shouldn't she have had enough foresight to keep it fueled? It had all the makings of a fresh argument.

Firmly choosing against it, he eased down on the thick grass and said, "This place will do just as well. Please sit down, Doctor."

She settled beside the grounded skimmer and hugged her knees to her chest, a contortion still quite impossible for Spock. The doctor assumed an attitude of such rapt attentiveness that he found it distracting. _Why did her eyes trouble him so?_ It was a relief when she looked aside and began toying with a blade of grass.

"Doctor," he began, selecting his words very carefully, "in the course of our stay here, I may have spoken…or acted…in ways that—" He watched her uproot an entire clump of grass. Her face went from pasty white to a disconcerting shade of red as he tried to go on. "In ways that were not entirely respectful. I have given the matter considerable thought. These past months you have proven that you are a capable…compassionate doctor. If at times I did not accord you the proper consideration—"

Abruptly she leapt up and loosed a baffling outburst. "Oh Captain, don't! You'll only regret it when you hear what _I_ have to say, so just—" The words choked off. She turned her back to him.

Spock struggled to his feet. Somehow his wounded dignity no longer seemed very important. There was an inexplicable urge to come up behind the doctor and enfold her in his arms—a need to comfort her and draw comfort from her touch. By long habit he searched inward for the lost disciplines, but found only emptiness inside. And _fear_.

Keeping his place he said, "Explain, then."

A shiver passed through her body. Squaring her shoulders she faced him, eyes overly bright. "Alright, sir. You really want to know? Thanks to your 'capable, compassionate' doctor, you are hooked on an illegal drug."

Her words scarcely registered at first. It was too much for Spock's convalescing mind to absorb, so it simply refused the information. He stared at her dumbly.

"Don't you get it? You were in such terrible pain. You were crying out in agony, so I gave you the only thing that would work. Saurian strardus. Six jolts a day. You even did it to yourself last night. Why haven't you guessed? Can't you feel what it does to you?"

 _Six jolts a day. Can't you feel what it does to you?_ Now Spock found it all starting to make a horrible kind of sense. The inviting warmth of the injections…the sensually engrossing flights of consciousness…the doctor's subtle evasiveness… _Six jolts a day. You were crying out. Saurian strardus…_

Now he was the one trembling, hands clenched at his sides. "Leave me," he demanded very quietly. There was no controlling the brutal onslaught of emotion. As he turned aside it burst from him in a painful roar. "Leave me, I say! _Go!"_

She moved. He heard her boots in the grass, then the soft impact of something hitting the ground.

"You'll be needing these," she said.

Long after she was gone, he turned around. Two objects lay on the grassy hillside. A fuel capsule…and a sprayhypo.

ooooo

"You _what?"_ McCoy's shout backed Lauren against the woven cottage wall, but Admiral Kirk pulled him away before the irate doctor could say anything more.

"Thank you, Admiral," she said, smoothing down her uniform. Maybe there was something to that legendary Kirk charm, after all. Drawing a deep breath, she faced down McCoy. "I left him back on the hill because that's what he wanted. He was having trouble dealing with some unpleasant news and _ordered_ me to leave. Believe me, sir, I would have preferred riding home in his skimmer to gathering blisters on that hot road."

"Never mind your blisters," Kirk said most uncharmingly. "What do you mean by 'unpleasant news'? What exactly has been going on here?"

Lauren cast a worried glance out the window. It was pitch dark outside. Spock should have been back by now; he knew when the Enterprise was due. And more importantly, it was well past time for his next shot. Either he had injected himself or…"It's a difficult situation, sir. The captain has a residual health problem that requires…" Her resolve gave out, her voice trailed away.

 _"What_ problem?" demanded McCoy. "Your messages haven't mentioned any problems."

Lauren looked from McCoy to Kirk and wished the ground would open up and swallow her. _Oh, why had she left him on that hill!_ Her mind filled with a vision of Spock writhing in agony beside a shattered hypo, a big stubborn fool refusing to face the facts, willing to die instead…

"Answer," Kirk snapped.

"It's…all in my log, sir." Lauren swallowed hard. "A form of…drug dependency resulting from therapy I deemed advisable when…he was dying."

Kirk looked openly relieved. Unfortunately McCoy was not so easy to appease. _"What_ drug?" asked the chief surgeon.

Lauren strained to hear beyond the outer walls of the cottage. The evening traffic noise had tapered down to an occasional road car. Most of the locals were already home for dinner. It should have been easy to make out the sound of— _Was that the wind or the distant whine of a skimmer?_

Kirk's head tilted as he, too, heard the approaching sound. "Spock?" he wondered.

Lauren nodded, relief flooding her. "That's him." _So he had done it—he couldn't possibly be driving, otherwise._

The skimmer landed. Spock's friends hurried out the front door to greet him under the porch light. Lauren watched at the window as Spock climbed out and inconspicuously steadied himself against the skimmer, facing Kirk and McCoy. Kirk grasped him by the shoulders and said something. Spock stood as rigid as a stone pillar, but Kirk's arms went around the Vulcan anyway.

Lauren was blinking back tears when Larry walked in the back door. A roguish smile stirred his lips as he looked her over. "You're okay, then."

"Yeah." She managed a weak grin. "Hardly bruised. But you should see the other guy."

It was easier to joke than say goodbye. The word sounded too permanent; it made for the kind of weepy scenes she despised. _Admit it, Laurie. You've always been afraid that your emotions will crack wide open and spill all over the floor. It happened on the hill. Spock was being nice, actually trying to apologize. And you were so full of guilt, so scared, that you lost control of yourself and took it out on him._

 _But he lost control, too-royally. He actually shouted. So maybe you should just consider things even for now..._

That was not so hard to do when Spock entered the cottage with Kirk and McCoy. They had both met Larry at the initial beamdown. After polite greetings, conversation flowed so naturally that no one but Lauren seemed to notice she had ceased to exist. But it was true. She knew it. Captain Spock knew it. His icy disregard made it quite clear that she was no longer a part of his universe, not even an annoying part.

Lauren experienced a chill, barren feeling that sent shivers down her spine. _So that's how it was going to be. First the cold shoulder, then he'd probably find some excuse to transfer her off the ship. Well, so be it then…do us both a favor…_

"Doctor Fielding."

She snapped out of it and found Admiral Kirk reaching for the com badge on his uniform jacket. Beam-up time. Their belongings were already aboard ship. Even the skimmer had been lifted from the front yard. But suddenly she realized they were forgetting something important. "Wait a minute. Where's Windsong?"

Larry went to the back door where she had shyly waited all that time, unnoticed. Windsong edged in, her silvery eyes gleaming with unshed tears as they settled on Spock. She signed a farewell to the Vulcan and received a very restrained {Goodbye}. In retaliation, Lauren gave Windsong a doubly affectionate hug. Then she put her arms around Larry and kissed his cheek before taking her place beside Doctor McCoy.

"Take care now, " she said aloud, signing. "See you both next time."

Two tears slid down Windsong's face. Larry slipped an arm around the child. "Till next time," he promised.

Lauren was swallowing the lump in her throat when the transporter beam took her.

ooooo

McCoy could not decide whether to cuss or shout for joy. Spock was cured—as thin as a two dollar post, but according to Doctor Fielding and a preliminary sweep of a medscanner, the Vulcan's body was free of plakir-fee. If only there weren't this drug business. In all the commotion Fielding still hadn't named the exact trouble.

He stepped off the transporter platform trying to decide what to tackle first. Examine Spock? Debrief Fielding? Go over her log? He wanted to do everything at once. He was turning toward Fielding when something disturbing happened, making the choice simpler.

Spock stumbled. Perhaps he was dizzy or misjudged the step down. His right leg gave way and as he began to fall, Fielding reached out and caught hold of his arm. Any normal person would have used the help to restore his balance. But Spock didn't do that. The Vulcan deliberately yanked away from Doctor Fielding and dropped to the deck.

As McCoy went to Spock's side, Kirk flashed him a look that meant he had seen it, too. Right then and there McCoy decided to take examine Spock without Fielding present. He was not in the mood for any personal drama. The doctor and her log could wait until he questioned Spock and drew his own medical conclusions.

"I'll see _you_ later," he told her.

Cut to the quick, Lauren watched Spock limp out the door with Doctor McCoy. _Rebuffed by the captain and the chief surgeon. Off to_ _a wonderful start._ Steadying herself with a deep breath, she told Kirk, "He might have seriously hurt himself. It's the—" She remembered the technicians at the transport console. "It's the nature of his condition, Admiral. A certain loss of equilibrium is to be expected. And the histamine treatments also had an effect on his inner ears."

Kirk gave her a searching look before drawing her into the corridor. McCoy and Spock were just boarding the lift. Kirk waited to speak until the doors shut after them. Very low, he said, "It's the drug, isn't it?"

She resisted the urge to squirm as Kirk's eyes probed her. "His balance is a little off, " she hedged. "Drugs have been known to produce that side-effect, but then so have transporters." That's why she had moved within reach of Spock—just in case.

Kirk let the matter drop. Unexpectedly he asked, "Are you hungry? It'll be awhile before McCoy's finished. You can fill me in over dinner."

The prospect of a brass level dinner debriefing made Lauren's stomach turn over. But there was no graceful way out of it, and there was a slim chance of gaining Kirk's support before the impending confrontation with Doctor McCoy. She nodded.

"Twenty minutes," he said with a heart-melting smile. "My quarters."

ooooo

"Cough," repeated McCoy, pressing the soniscope to Spock's bared chest. A faintly asthmatic rumble vibrated the doctor's ear receptor. Listening intently, McCoy repositioned the scope over some bony ribs. "Again."

Spock sighed. "Doctor, I have already coughed for you eleven times. You have listened to me breathe and peered into my eyes and ears. You have probed my throat with uncomfortably long instruments—"

"And for an encore I'm going to strike your knees with little mallets and stick needles in your arms." McCoy tossed the soniscope and 'ceptor onto a tray of instruments. "Bear with me, Spock. It's just that I distrust miracles. You beamed off this ship a dying man, and now…"

McCoy suspected a Vulcan eyebrow was climbing somewhere beneath that shaggy hair. With a sardonic look Spock said, "Are you disappointed, Doctor?"

McCoy considered knocking him off the table, but he was in the business of healing bruises, not inflicting them. "Lie down," he snapped.

Spock settled on the diagnostic table with more than his usual measure of reluctance. To McCoy he looked tense, almost jumpy. Keeping a peripheral watch on the Vulcan, he engaged the body scanner. At first the systemic analysis on the wall monitor looked good. Then the chemical evaluations flashed in.

McCoy's heart lurched. "Sweet Lord," he said under his breath. _No wonder the Vulcan seemed jittery!_ It was right there on the screen, damning levels of a drug so addictive that it was illegal throughout the Federation. _Fielding must have been out of her mind!_

But that wasn't exactly fair, and McCoy knew it. The impaired areas of Spock's brain were textbook typical of plakir-fee. There was no healing mode left to engage, no Vulcan center of pain control. To a man dying in agony Saurian strardus could be a blessing. But to a _living_ man…

Not for the first time, McCoy wished he had beamed down in Fielding's place. But who's to say that he wouldn't have done the same thing? After all, Spock _was_ dying.

But _strardus!_ What could be worse? Spock dead and buried, _that's_ what!

McCoy switched off the scanner and desperately tried to sound matter-of-fact. "Well. You're really healed, then, all thanks to a tickle in your nose…and Doctor Lauren Fielding. Not that you thanked her, of course. That wouldn't be logical, considering."

He might as well have been talking to his medscanner. As Spock silently raised himself up and began dressing, McCoy's throat tightened with compassion. "No wonder you're mad at her."

"Doctor, please." Spock stood and stiffly pulled his shirt into place. "My recovery is apt to be a very slow process. The sooner I enter a treatment facility, the sooner it will be done with."

McCoy just looked at him and nodded. Whatever else he might think about Spock, the man had guts.

ooooo

Some debriefing this had turned out to be. Dinner was simple but elegant; the company, surprisingly agreeable. When would Kirk serve up the tough questions—with the after-dinner mints?

As Lauren toyed with another bite of Italian lasagna, she could almost forget that her dinner companion was Chief of Starfleet Operations. How had he been managing that job from the Enterprise? Lots of conference calls, she supposed, on coded channels.

"Wine?" Kirk offered for the second time.

She shook her head and pushed aside her plate. "Sir, can we just get on with it? What I have to report won't sit well on a full stomach." She was uncertain about the ethics of divulging Spock's situation to Kirk, even if he _was_ top brass. But this was clearly more than a medical matter. Starfleet regulations made it a _legal_ matter.

The smile had left Kirk's face, and now Lauren realized how tenuous a smile it had been. He definitely had a case of nerves. _Well, welcome to the club._

"Alright," he said. "Give it to me straight."

Lauren's pulse raced out of control. "Admiral…I can give it to you in one word." One ugly little word that made her palms sweat, her throat tighten. _"Stardust."_

Kirk frowned. In the depths of his hazel eyes she could almost see his brain twisting the word inside out, recoiling from the more obscene possibilities. "Stardust. You don't mean…strardus. Saurian strardus."

She nodded, expecting to collect bloody hell, but instead of exploding, Kirk settled back in his chair and stared numbly into space. At last he said, "It was that bad?"

Lauren had come prepared for a fight, not calm acceptance. "Yes," she recalled, "it was that bad. He had no Vulcan resources to fall back on when the medications became ineffective."

"So you…helped him out."

"Yes, sir."

More silence, then, "But why _strardus?_ Couldn't you have used some other drug? Something less…less addictive?"

"Believe me, I considered them all. He was right on the edge. Anything powerful enough to ease his pain would have finished him off. The pain alone was doing it. Under those circumstances, addiction doesn't really matter."

Though obviously shaken, Kirk seemed satisfied with Lauren's explanation. "Well," he said with a touch of irony, "at least now I know why he brushed you off in the transporter room. Spock must be blaming you. And he's probably still sore at me for sending you along in the first place."

Lauren stared at her plate and said nothing. She still felt guilty about the ugly scene on the hill.

"Next question," Kirk said. "How soon can he be freed of the drug?"

Lauren sighed. Her hands met on the tabletop and interlaced as she faced Admiral Kirk again. "Normally…the detox period for a man of Spock's relative age, and his physiology, would be fairly short. Say, two or three weeks. Unfortunately, the captain is convalescing from a major illness. In his present condition the strain of detoxification would likely kill him." At the look of distress on Kirk's face she quickly added, "Once his health is completely restored, he should have no problem withstanding the typical detox procedure."

"And meanwhile?"

"Meanwhile he'll need regular doses of strardus and close medical supervision to keep him stable." She leaned forward. "Admiral, I sincerely hope he won't be discharged from the service. I know Starfleet has no use for addicts—" she inwardly cringed at the term. "But the captain didn't get himself into this mess…and the drug _can_ be properly dispensed."

Kirk nodded bleakly.

"Admiral, I'm sorry," she said sincerely. "If I'd only discovered the histamine connection a few days sooner."

"Or if Jonas Hobbs had never lured Spock to Minora." Kirk's voice was bitter.

"Hobbs?"

"The man responsible for all this." Kirk went on to identify Jonas Hobbs as the informant Sarek had mentioned when he contacted Lauren. "Sarek had the authorities pick him up on criminal charges. They say he actually boasted about infecting Spock. I'd like to—" A door chime interrupted him. Dragged from his dark reverie, Kirk called out, "Come."

McCoy entered the impromptu dining area, helped himself to a chair and a glass of wine. Lauren's back stiffened as his weary eyes settled on her. "Well," he said after a generous swallow, "you certainly did your job, Doctor. Spock is certifiably on the road to recovery. What's a little dishonorable discharge?"

To Lauren the words seemed downright sarcastic and she bristled with the unfairness of it. She was on the verge of a defensive retort when Kirk spoke.

"There will be no discharge," he said in a firm voice, "or rehab center. I am not sending Spock off this ship a second time."

McCoy grinned at the admiral. "I was hoping you'd say that. Laurie here brought Spock back from the dead. I should be able to handle the small stuff." Incredibly, he winked at her. Lauren managed a weak smile as he continued, "I took a few minutes to scan your log. I'm convinced you did the right thing, Doctor. Strardus gave Spock the extra time you both needed. Good work."

Lauren found the approval of Spock's friends almost as hard to bear as the imagined criticism. If she had done things right, she would have saved Spock without addicting him to drugs, without making him hate her. But for now Kirk and McCoy seemed content with less-than-perfect results, and who was she to argue? At least the captain was alive.

A little dazed, she watched McCoy lift his wine glass in salute. "To miracles."

Lauren raised her goblet of ice water. They all touched glasses and smiled.

ooooo

A steward was clearing away the dinner dishes when Kirk tucked a thick printout under his arm, slipped out into the quiet evening corridor and began walking. The captain's quarters had stood empty for so long. What would he find there tonight? Fielding and McCoy had briefed him on Spock's regimen of drug injections and their anticipated effect on the half-Vulcan's mind and body. The information had not been particularly encouraging.

He paused at Spock's door, nervous. They had not parted on the best of terms when Spock beamed down to Gamma Vertas. What if Spock refused to see him? What if he walked in while the Vulcan was "shooting up"? But no, McCoy had said that medical staff would administer all but the late night dosage, that someone dependant on strardus could not be left to regulate himself—not even someone like Spock.

The thought saddened Kirk. But even if Spock couldn't be trusted to care for himself, he would still be in the best of care, right here aboard the Enterprise. After everything Spock had been through, and had yet to face, he could use the company of friends. If Spock still considered him a friend…

Kirk pressed the door chime. No one answered. On the second chime a faint voice came from somewhere inside. "Who is there?"

"Jim."

There was an unsettling moment of silence, then, "Come in."

As Kirk reached for the switch pad, the muted click of the lock release startled him. His heart thudding, he entered the dark cabin and waited just inside for his human eyes to adjust. The eerie red flickering of Spock's attunement flame showed an empty room. Steeling himself, he followed a faint trail of light into the bed area and found Spock on his bunk in pajamas, reading from the library viewer. Aside from his unshorn hair and wasted appearance, the Vulcan looked entirely normal—until he glanced up. In the shadows his eye were chillingly black, the pupils unnaturally dilated.

Kirk experienced a surge of revulsion and struggled to repress it. Now that he knew of Spock's addiction, how could he think of anything else when they were together? Would the Vulcan sense his preoccupation? He did not touch Spock, as he had at the mission. He did not want to risk having the Vulcan go stiff again. Feeling miserably awkward, he kept his distance.

"Spock," he began, "I hope you realize how glad we all are to have you back. When the news came of your recovery, there was a ship-wide celebration." The memory brought a smile. What a party it had been, what a wild outpouring of affection among the trainees and crew for one dispassionate Vulcan. "You would have hated it."

"It sounds very…human," Spock observed.

With his hair hanging over his eyebrows and ear tips, Spock could easily have passed for human. But he seemed as tautly restrained as ever—perhaps out of resentment, perhaps to compensate for the Vulcan parts of him lost to disease, the dignity and self-reliance lost to drugs.

Kirk forcibly kept the smile in place. "You could use a haircut. Gain back your strength, put on some weight. I can stay aboard ship until you're ready for command."

"Technically," Spock said, "you should arrange for my immediate discharge."

At least the Vulcan _sounded_ normal. Kirk relaxed a bit. "Technically, you didn't do this to yourself. Technically, you're under medical treatment and we have everything you need aboard ship."

Spock's mouth tightened. "Admiral, under the circumstances that is hardly wise."

"I'll be the judge of that." _Here we go again..._

Predictably Spock's attitude became even more confrontational. "Need I remind you that _your_ choice of medical companion directly resulted in my current condition?"

Kirk chose to ignore the accusation. "Spock, you can recuperate right here, even take on a light schedule if you feel up to it."

Visibly flushing, Spock pushed himself up in bed. "Why must you always oppose me? I would like nothing better than to remain aboard, but it is not practical. This is a starship, not a drug-abuse center." It sounded uncomfortably like something Doctor McCoy would say and even Spock seemed to realize it. He searched for the words to begin anew. "The trainees should not see a commanding officer…the captain of a starship…it is…there are…" He faltered and lost the flow of thought completely.

Kirk had never seen the fluent Vulcan struggling to express himself. It was unnerving. Quietly he said, "You forget that you're among friends. McCoy thinks shipboard treatment is feasible, and so does Doctor Fielding. I trust their opinions."

 _"Fielding!"_ Spock uttered the name with scorn. Leaving his bed, he began to pace restlessly.

"Yes, Fielding," said Kirk. "The doctor who saved your life."

The Vulcan came to an abrupt halt.

"Spock, I get the impression you've never liked her. _Why?"_

Spock whirled on him, his face a mask of fury. "May I assume that she interests _you?"_

Kirk felt his heart pounding in his throat. Would Spock physically attack him? He had never seen the Vulcan behave so erratically—except in the throes of pon farr. He fell back on the tone of command. "Captain, get hold of yourself!"

It worked.

Spock turned aside. His shoulders slumped and he began to shiver. Kirk switched on the bedroom light. Opening the closet, he selected a black, warm looking robe, its front embroidered with silvery runes. It had been a gift from Spock's family when he made captain. How long ago that now seemed, how different a Spock from this unpredictable stranger. He turned around and found the Vulcan staring at him.

"You're cold," Kirk said. It was enough.

Spock wrapped himself in the thick robe and raised the hood. Shaking hard, he sat down on his bed, head bowed, hands tucked deep into the wide sleeves. Quietly he said, "You see now why I must leave."

Forgetting his own discomfort, Kirk reached out and gripped the Vulcan's shoulder. "I see a friend in trouble. There's only one way I know how to respond to that." He was already learning to deal with the changes in Spock. In time all the strangeness would pass—he had to believe it. After all, Spock had only learned of his addiction today. The Vulcan would adjust, and eventually rid his body of the strardus. He would regain his health, his dignity, and his career. In time everything would get back to normal.

About to leave, Kirk remembered the printout under his arm. _Was it a mistake?_ Drawing it out, he set the bound pages beside Spock. "I thought you might like to read this. It's one of my favorites."

Spock turned his head and saw the title. His lips stirred into a grim ghost of a smile. " _Endurance._ How very apt."

"That's the name of a ship trapped in Earth's Antarctic ice during an early 20th century expedition."

"Ernest Shackleton commanding," Spock recalled.

"Yes. Their ordeal gave rise to the Science of Failure and the lessons to be learned from it—adaptability, persistence, resilience." _Would Spock throw the book at him? Knock him on his ass?_

From the depths of his robe, the Vulcan looked at him and said, "Thank you."


End file.
